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GIFT  OF 
Dr.   Horace   Ivie 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


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http://www.archive.org/details/collegegreekcourOOwilkrich 


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Bmvlmsom  Berveioius, 


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By  the  Same  flUJPHOi^, 


UNIFORM   WITH  THIS   VOLUME. 


ALREADY  PUBLISHED. 

PREPARATORY  CREEK  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH. 
PREPARATORY  LATIN  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH. 

IN  PREPARA  TION. 

COLLEGE  LATIN  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH. 


\ 


THE  AFTER-SCHOOL   SERIES. 


COLLEGE 


GREEKcWa;fir^sE 


O  EIGLISH. 


BY 

WILLIAM  CLEAVER  WILKINSON. 


SEVENTH  THOUSAND. 


NEW  YORK: 
PHILLIPS    <&    HUNT, 

CINCINNATI: 

CRANSTON    &     STOWE. 

1884. 


'1  a  >1  _•  «>      « 
y     •    ^    "-J     -1      •■«■ 


Copyright,  1884,  by 
PHILLIPS    &     HUNT, 

tOUCATION  DEFT 


PREFACE 


This  book  is  the  third  issue  in  a  series  of  four  vol- 
umes, devised  on  a  novel  plan  for  making  possible, 
through  the  English  language,  a  certain  degree  of  cult- 
ure in  Greek  and  Latin  letters. 

The  general  scope  and  method  of  the  series  have 
already,  in  preceding  issues,  been  sufficiently  described. 
The  particular  purpose  of  the  present  volume  is  fully 
explained  in  the  first  chapter  following. 

To  such  readers  as  may  chance  to  take  up  this  book 
first  in  order,  we  will  simply,  in  repetition,  say  that  the 
two  previous  volumes  were  devoted  to  those  parts  of 
Greek  literature,  and  Latin,  respectively,  which  are 
usually  studied  by  candidates  for  entrance  to  college. 
They  were  each  commenced  with  a  sketch  of  the 
geography  and  the  history  pertaining  to  the  peoples 
that  produced  the  literatures,  together  with  a  summary 
and  characterization  of  the  literatures  themselves. 

Each  volume  of  the  four  is  designed  to  be  perfectly 
intelligible  by  itself  alone;  but  all  the  volumes,  on  the 
other  hand,  stand  in  such  mutual  relation  that  each  will 
be  read  with  greater  advantage  in  connection  with  its 
fellows  in  the  series. 


924248 


6  Preface. 

The  Index  of  proper  names  at  the  close  of  this  vol- 
ume may  occasionally  be  consulted  with  advantage  by 
readers  desirous  of  explanatory  information  not  fur- 
nished in  the  text. 

It  is  due  that  acknowledgment  again  be  made  of  debt 
to  Dr.  J.  H.  Vincent  for  his  important  part  in  the  pres- 
ent series  of  volumes.  The  original  idea  of  the  series 
was  his,  not  the  writer's. 


CONTENTS. 


-♦♦♦- 


I.  Page 

College  Study  of  Greek. 9 

II. 
Herodotus 16 

III. 
Thucydides 52 

IV. 
Plato 83 

V. 

iEsCHYLUS 127 

VI. 
Sophocles 154 

VII. 
Euripides 187 

VIII. 
Aristophanes 216 

IX. 
Pindar,  (Sappho,  Simonides) 226 

X. 

Theocritus,  (Bion,  Moschus) 239 

XI. 
Demosthenes,  (vEschines) 253 

Appendix 285 

Index 298 


|llti5tra:ti0ns 


Page 
The  World  of  Herodotus Frontispiece 

Herodotus 17 

Ruins  of  Sardis 33 

Supposed  Tomb  of  Cyrus 39 

Themistocles 43 

Tiiucydides 53 

Pericles 71 

Plato 83 

Socrates 105 

Alcibiades 126 

Aristotle 127 

Sophocles 154 

Teiresias  Denouncing  CEdipus 163 

Euripides 1S7 

Aristophanes 216 

Pindar 226 

Alceus  and  Sappho 238 

Theocritus 239 

Demosthenes. 253 

^scHiNES 256 

Temple  at  ^Egina 284 

N.  B. — The  stamp  on  the  cover  represents  "  The  Hall  in  the  Grove  "  at 
Chautauqua. 


coLLE,0:fij-'*''-  ''■•'•■ 
GREEK  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH, 


I. 

COLLEGE    STUDY    OF    GREEK. 

It  is  the  object  of  this  volume  to  furnish  readers  not 
versed  in  any  tongue  but  the  English,  with  the  means  of 
obtaining,  at  their  leisure  and  without  change  of  residence 
on  their  part,  approximately  the  same  knowledge  of  Greek 
letters  as  is  imparted  to  students  during  a  four-years'  stay  in 
the  average  American  college.  Not  an  equivalent,  but  a 
substitute — the  best  substitute  in  the  nature  of  the  case 
practicable — for  college  culture  in  Greek,  is  what  we  here 
undertake  to  supply. 

In  pursuing  the  object  thus  described,  we  have,  in  the  main, 
to  follow  a  path  pointed  out  for  us  by  example  and  custom ; 
in  part,  however,  we  necessarily  have  also  to  use  an  inde- 
pendent discretion  of  our  own.  Various  colleges  have 
various  courses  of  Greek  reading  prescribed  for  their  stu- 
dents. The  same  colleges  even  from  time  to  time  vary 
their  courses,  according  to  the  judgment  of  the  responsible 
heads  of  the  department  of  Greek  instruction.  It  thus 
happens  that  graduates  of  different  colleges  not  unfrequently 
might  find,  upon  comparison  of  their  college  experiences  in 
the  study  of  Greek,  that  the  lines  of  their  reading  in  the 
language  had  been  far  from  wholly  coincident.  Nay,  grad- 
uates of  the  same    college,  belonging  to  different   classes, 

will  sometimes — and  this,  it  may  be,  under  the  same  Greek 
1* 


lo  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

professor — have  accomplished  courses  of  study  in  Greek  at 
point?  quite  divergent  cine  from  another. 

In  FAich  a  state 'bf  the  case,  obviously  our  own  true  policy 
here  naus^  betp  Jay  out,  as  well  as  we  can,  a  kind  of  eclectic 
.ai&da\'t>fsgb "Greek  course  of  our  own.  So  we  accordingly 
do.  Readers  of  our  volume  will,  therefore,  not  look  to  find 
themselves,  as  the  result  of  their  reading,  conversant  with 
altogether  the  same  Greek  literature — much  less,  with  exactly 
the  same  portions  of  the  same  Greek  literature — that  were 
studied  in  college  by  the  next  college  graduate  they  may 
chance,  in  conversation  on  the  subject,  to  challenge  to 
comparison  of  his  experience  with  theirs.  There  will, 
between  your  own  Greek  reading,  accomplished  in  English, 
and  that  of  all  college  graduates,  be  points  of  contact,  here 
or  there,  passages  probably,  longer  or  shorter,  of  strict  coinci- 
dence ;  but  your  lines  of  familiarity  with  Greek  classics  will 
by  no  means  blend  into  entire  identity  throughout  with  those 
of  any  college  graduate  whatever.  Your  conversance,  how- 
ever, with  Greek  letters  will  not  necessarily  be  less,  because 
it  is  other,  than  that  of  the  graduate  from  college. 

But,  in  order  that  you  may  judge  independently  for 
yourself  under  what  comparative  advantages  and  disad- 
vantages you  here  pursue  that  course  of  Greek  culture 
which  your  fellow-citizens  in  the  widening  republic  of 
letters  pursue  at  college,  we  are  going  now  to  descend  a 
little  into  particulars  in  describing  for  you  the  work  act- 
ually done  or  attempted  in  Greek,  during  their  stay  in  col- 
lege, by  candidates  for  the  so-called  bachelor's  degree  in 
arts. 

In  some  important  respects,  the  American  college  differs 
from  its  European  prototype.  In  Europe,  the  university 
student  accomplishes  his  prescribed  course  of  study  in  any 
way  he  may  choose  to  adopt,  aiming  simply  at  being  able 
to  pass  the  tests  of  examination  that  await  him  only  at 
long   intervals  of    his    progress,    or   perhaps  barely   oqce, 


College  Study  of  Greek,  ii 

and  that  at  the  distant  ultimate  goal.  In  this  country,  the 
college  student  is  examined  not  only  at  certain  widely 
separated  stations  in  his  course,  but  every  day.  "  Reci- 
tations," we  Americans  call  these  daily  examinations.  For 
the  daily  recitation  of  the  class-room  is  less  a  teaching, 
than  a  testing,  exercise.  The  testing  is,  indeed,  in  practice 
accompanied  with  some  teaching.  But  the  truest  way  in 
which  to  conceive  the  class-room  recitation  at  college,  as 
ordinarily  administered,  is  in  the  light  of  an  expedient 
adopted  for  securing  regular  and  thorough  private  attention 
to  their  study  from  the  students.  A  certain  task,  comprising, 
say,  from  one  to  two  octavo  pages  of  a  Greek  author,  is  as- 
signed to-day  for  the  class  to  report  on  ("  recite  ")  to-morrow. 
Each  member  is  expected  in  the  interval,  with  the  aid  of  his 
grammar  and  his  lexicon,  to  translate  the  passage  for  him- 
self ;  and  moreover,  with  the  same  aid,  supplemented  by  the 
aid  of  such  other  books  of  reference  as  may  be  at  his  com- 
mand, to  examine  carefully  the  points  of  etymology,  of  syn- 
tax, of  prosody,  of  archaeology,  of  geography,  of  topography, 
of  history,  of  literary  criticism,  that  may  naturally  be  sug- 
gested by  the  task  or  lesson.  When  the  hour  of  recitation 
arrives,  the  class  assemble  with  their  instructor,  (professor  or 
tutor,)  and  submit  to  examination.  Each  member  of  the 
class  in  his  turn,  (how  frequently  the  turn  recurs,  and  with 
what  degree  of  regularity,  to  any  one  student,  depends 
partly  upon  the  number  of  the  class,  or  the  section,  to  which 
he  belongs,  and  partly  upon  the  individual  habit  of  the 
instructor — of  course  it  may  be  almost  daily,  or  it  may  be 
not  more  than  once  or  twice  in  a  week,)  each  member,  we 
say,  of  the  class  in  rotation,  is  called  upon  by  name  to  report 
or  "  recite."  The  moment  that  intervenes,  after  roll-call, 
before  the  professor  names  the  first  man  to  report,  is  a 
moment  of  suspense  and  excitement  for  all  the  members  of 
the  class — except  such  as,  from  the  fact  of  their  having 
recently  responded  to  challenge,  feel  a  comfortable  degree  of 


12  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

assurance  that  the  lightning  will  not  strike  them  this  time. 
This  moment  of  uncertain  expectation  is  repeated  through- 
out the  hour,  at  the  close  of  each  individual  conscript's 
report — the  tension  generally  exhibiting  a  remarkable  tend- 
ency to  increase  and  diminish  alphabetically,  according  as  the 
initial  letter  of  a  given  man's  name  stands  near  or  remote  in 
order,  reckoned  from  that  belonging  to  the  name  of  the  stu- 
dent at  the  instant  under  fire.  The  professor,  of  course,  has  it 
in  his  power  to  make  his  method  of  proceeding  so  incalcu- 
lable, that  no  member  of  the  class  can  any  day  count  with 
safety  on  exemption  from  summons  to  recite.  A  wholesome 
sense  of  ever-imminent  danger,  on  the  student's  part,  is  to 
him  a  highly  useful  condition  of  faithful  labor  in  preparing 
his  lesson.  Still,  in  most  cases,  the  actual  administration  of 
the  class-room  falls  into  a  kind  of  routine  on  which  the 
observing  student  can  reasonably  make  his  calculations. 
Indeed,  some  regularity  of  rotation  becomes  at  length  a 
prescriptive  law  at  college,  which  the  professor  infringes  at 
the  risk  of  complaint,  overt  or  secret,  on  the  part  of  the 
students.  On  the  whole,  it  usually  falls  out  that  the  teacher 
consults  at  once  his  own  ease  and  the  peace,  perhaps  too  the 
real  prosperity,  of  his  class,  in  a  tacit  understanding  estab- 
lished between  him  and  them  that  each  member  may  expect 
his  turn  of  recitation  to  recur,  with  a  good  degree  of  regu- 
larity, once  in  about  so  many  days. 

The  standard  of  performance  in  recitation  varies  greatly 
under  different  teachers,  at  different  colleges,  in  different 
classes.  It  is  never  anywhere  too  high.  College  instructors 
are  much  embarrassed  by  imperfect  ante-collegiate  prepara- 
tion on  the  part  of  their  pupils.  Preparatory  teachers,  in 
their  turn,  are  much  embarrassed  by  poor  primary  instruction 
preceding  their  own  share  in  the  training  of  the  candidate 
for  college.  Primary  teachers  again  often  have  just  cause  of 
complaining  that  their  work  with  the  child  is  not  properly 
supported  by  intelligent  parental  influence  at  home.     Edu- 


College  Study  of  Greek.  13 

cation  is  an  edifice  greatly,  at  every  stage  in  the  process  of 
erection,  dependent  for  its  stability  on  the  skill  with  which 
the  successive  under-courses  of  structure,  down  to  the  lower- 
most courses  of  all,  are  laid.  We  should  be  glad  to  hope 
that  this  series  of  books  may,  for  a  few  persons  at  least,  do 
something,  however  little,  toward  strengthening  the  edifice, 
at  each  joint  of  its  upward  springing  toward  the  summit  and 
crown.  In  the  average  existing  state  of  the  case,  the  stand- 
ard of  college  recitation  in  Greek  falls,  as  every  qualified 
judge  will  pronounce,  far  short  of  what  it  might  be.  Students 
stumble  a  good  deal  in  translating  their  author  aloud  in  the 
class-room.  They  hesitate,  they  choose  doubtfully,  they 
change  their  choice,  they  fill  in  with  inarticulate  murmur 
between  words,  and  in  eff'ect  spend  much  time  to  make  com- 
paratively small  progress.  Ordinarily,  it  consumes  the  hour 
of  recitation  to  go  over  an  amount  of  text  which  ought  to  be 
dispatched  in  a  quarter  of  that  time.  The  consequence  is 
that  relatively  little  Greek  is  read  in  the  class-room.  The 
advance,  as  has  been  intimated,  is  at  the  rate  oi  not  more 
than  two  ordinary  octavo  pages  a  day.  Thus,  in  one  term 
of  three  months,  allowance  being  made  for  Saturdays,  (seldom 
used  as  work-days  in  Greek,)  and  for  days  given  to  special 
reviews  and  examinations,  the  total  space  traversed  will  be 
measured  by,  say,  a  hundred  pages  of  text.  This  amount  of 
reading  may  be  taken  as  the  average  maximum  accomplished 
in  college  in  any  one  Greek  author — it  rarely  being  the  case 
that  to  any  one  Greek  author  more  than  a  single  term  of  the 
college  course  is  devoted.  The  number  of  terms  in  which 
Greek  is  studied  differs  for  different  colleges.  The  current 
tendency  is,  on  the  whole,  in  the  direction  of  a  smaller 
number  rather  than  a  larger.  Five  or  six  terms  would,  prob- 
ably, be  a  fair  estimate  for  the  average. 

As  has  been  said,  recitation  proceeding  from  the  student 
is  accompanied  during  the  same  hour  with  instruction  pro- 
ceeding  from  the   teacher.     These    two  exercises,   namely, 


14  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

testing  and  teaching,  are  not  always  in  practice  kept  rigidly- 
separate  from  each  other.  The  effect,  however,  of  keeping 
them  so — and  thus  of  leaving  the  student  to  make  his  daily 
report  of  translation  as  best  he  can,  entirely  without  inter- 
ruption of  any  sort  from  the  teacher,  whether  in  the  form  of 
aid  offered,  question  asked,  or  remark  interjected — is  in  such 
a  manner  to  expose  shortcomings  on  the  student's  part  to 
himself  and  to  his  classmates,  that  he  and  they  together  will 
be  powerfully  stimulated  to  acquit  themselves  without  short- 
comings if  possible.  Parents,  by  the  way,  can  do  a  service 
that  wise  teachers  will  appreciate,  by  early  and  steadily  re- 
quiring from  their  children  in  the  preparatory  school  a  high 
degree  of  neatness,  promptness,  swiftness,  in  the  business  of 
reciting.  Get  the  boys  and  girls  to  translate  their  lessons 
aloud  beforehand  to  you  at  home.  You,  we  will  say,  do  not 
feel  qualified  to  decide  whether  or  not  their  rendering  is  ex- 
actly faithful  to  the  original  text.  No  matter.  You  can  at 
least  decide  whether  they  make  intelligible  sense,  in  tolerable 
English,  and  whether  they  move  through  their  task  with 
alertness  and  confidence.  Insist  that  the  important  work  of 
choosing  words  and  constructions  be  conscientiously  and 
thoughtfully  done,  and  that  it  be  done  before  recitation,  not 
during  recitation.  If  all  college  students  would  prepare 
their  daily  tasks  in  translating  on  this  plan,  there  might  as 
well  as  not  be  saved  to  the  college  officer  certainly  half,  per- 
haps two  thirds,  of  his  hour,  to  spend,  either  before  or  after 
recitation  proper,  in  the  work  of  instruction  proper.  We 
must  not  here  travel  out  of  our  own  legitimate  province,  to 
offer  suggestions  on  the  general  subject  of  classical  study. 
We  say  what  we  here  do  say,  in  the  way  simply  of  showing 
how  it  comes  about  that  so  small  a  part  of  the  field  of  Greek 
letters  is  actually  traversed  in  class-room  instruction  at  col- 
lege ;  and  how  it  is  accordingly  that,  within  the  limited  com- 
pass of  a  volume  like  the  present,  the  college  course  of  Greek 
literature  may  be  not  very  inadequately  represented  in  En- 


College  Study  of  Greek,  15 

glish.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  merest  entrance  into  the  various 
Greek  authors  taken  up,  that  at  best  can  be  given  to  students 
at  college.  Six  different  authors,  perhaps,  are  as  many  as  on 
the  average  are  introduced  into  the  course. 

Our  plan  is  in  this  book  to  give  our  readers  a  taste  of 
some  ten  or  twelve  Greek  authors,  representing  four  different 
departments  of  Greek  literature.  In  history,  there  are,  be- 
sides Xenophon  previously  presented,  two  great  Greek  names 
standing  forth  so  conspicuously  first  among  all  rivals,  that 
our  choice  is  virtually  made  for  us  without  our  own  choosing. 
He-rod'o-tus  and  Thu-cyd'i-des  (Thu-sid'i-deez)  will  neces- 
sarily be  our  historians.  Of  Greek  philosophers,  Soc'ra-tes 
is  easily  foremost,  with  no  peer  for  comparison.  Socrates 
never  wrote  any  thing.  But  his  teaching  was  a  flowing  fount- 
ain that  "watered  all  the  schools  "  of  the  best  ancient  Greek 
philosophy.  Let  Plato,  pupil  and  expounder  to  Socrates,  be 
Greek  philosopher  for  us.  In  poetry — Homer  having  already 
been  given — we  shall  feel  no  hesitation  in  fixing  upon  the 
writers  to  be  representative  to  English  readers  of  the  highest 
achievement  in  Greek.  That  great  triad  of  names,  ^s'chyl-us, 
(Es'kil-ns,)  Soph'o-cles,  Eu-rip'i-des,  for  Greek  tragedy;  in 
Greek  comedy,  that  master,  solitary  in  his  unchallenged  pre- 
eminence, Ar-is-toph'a-nes ;  these,  together  with  "burning 
Sappho,"  and  the  "  Theban  eagle,"  Pindar,  to  chant  for  us 
their  "^olian  charms  and  Dorian  lyrick  odes,"  and  perhaps 
also  with  The-oc'ri-tus  and  Mos'chus  to  yield  us  interlude  of 
"  rural  ditties  "  "  tempered  to  the  oaten  flute  " — these,  we  say, 
compose  a  choir  of  melody  and  of  harmony  to  which  it  will 
be  the  fault  of  the  present  choragus,  if  a  numerous  English 
audience  do  not  delight  to  listen.  Finally,  we  shall  bid  our 
readers  "  to  the  famous  orators  repair."  Stormy  De-mos'- 
the-nes,  with  brilliant  ^s'chi-nes  (Es'ki-neez)  for  foil,  shall 
"  fulmine "  for  us  in  that  "resistless  eloquence"  of  his, 
"  from  Macedon  to  Artaxerxes'  throne." 

Such  is  our  plan.     We  proceed  at  once  to  carry  it  out. 


1 6  College  Greek  Course  in  E fig  lis h. 


HISTORY 


II 

HERODOTUS. 

Every  body  that  has  heard  at  all  of  Herodotus  has  heard 
of  him  as  "  the  father  of  history."  The  title  is  bestowed  de- 
servedly on  the  bearer ;  still,  the  effect  of  it,  kept  as  it  is  in 
almost  inseparable  association  with  this  historian's  name,  is 
to  create  on  the  minds  of  readers  not  accurately  acquainted 
with  the  facts,  an  impression  of  greater  antiquity  for  the 
person  described  than  in  truth  belongs  to  Herodotus. 

The  father  of  history,  Herodotus,  and  the  father  of  epic 
poetry.  Homer,  were  separated  from  each  other  by  a  long, 
indeed  an  indefinitely  long,  period  of  time.  When  Homer 
lived,  nobody  certainly  knows.  When  Herodotus  lived,  is  a 
point  of  ancient  chronology  well  ascertained.  To  Herodotus, 
born  about  484  B.  C,  Homer,  though  fellow-countryman, 
was  already  an  ancient.  Five  hundred  years  may  have 
elapsed,  after  Homer  wrote  the  world's  first  great  epic, 
before  Herodotus  wrote  the  world's  first  great  history. 
But  Thucydides  then  promptly  followed  with  his  historical 
masterpiece — perhaps  while  Herodotus  was  still  among  the 
living. 

What  makes  Herodotus  differ  so  much  in  seeming  antiq- 
uity from  his  younger  contemporary,  Thucydides,  is  largely 
the  striking  contrast  in  tone  and  manner  between  the  two 
historians.  Thucydides  is  strict,  curt,  severe,  critical,  phil- 
osophical ;  while  Herodotus  is  full,  flowing,  digressive,  fond 
of  marvels,  romantic.  Herodotus  was  no  less  disposed  to  be 
truthful  than  was  Thucydides  after  him  ;  but  for  knowing  how 
to  be  truthful,  Thucydides  was  better  equipped  than  was  pio- 


Herodotus. 


17 


neer  Herodotus.  Again,  it  entered  into  the  plan  of  Herodotu^ 
to  report  to  us  a. great  many  things  reported  to  him,  that  he  by 
no  means  asked  us  to  credit,  that,  in  fact,  he  did  not  credit 
himself.  Herodotus's  credulity,  together  with  his  plan  of  re- 
porting  reports — to  a  great  extent  irrespectively  of   their 


HERODOTUS. 


probable  truth — has  gained  for  him  a  traditional  and  popular 
repute  of  untrustworthiness  that  he  is  far  from  deserving. 
The  tendency  of  recent  historical  criticism,  applied  in  the 
light  of  geographical  exploration  and  archaeological  discovery, 


1 8  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

has  been  steadily  in  the  direction  of  raising  the  credit  of 
Herodotus  as  a  conscientious  historian.  This,  however, 
must  not  be  taken  to  mean  that  the  whole  of  what  Herod- 
otus tells  us  is,  in  the  main,  to  be  accepted  for  true.  So 
far  from  it,  what  Herodotus  tells  us  will,  when  carefully 
examined,  be  found,  in  no  small  part,  to  consist  of  sto- 
ries that  we  are  compelled  to  reject  for  false.  But  then 
such  stories  in  Herodotus  are  incidental  and  episodical 
in  their  nature.  They  may  easily  be  detached  from  the 
main  thread  of  the  narrative,  the  main  thread  of  the  nar- 
rative remaining  unharmed  and  continuous  without  them. 
Besides,  although  Herodotus  was  certainly  not  furnished  with 
that  guardian  historical  skepticism  which  served  Thucydides 
so  well  in  sifting  for  historical  truth,  and  though  there- 
fore Herodotus  sometimes  himself  believed  where  Thu- 
cydides would  wisely  have  rejected  ;  yet,  as  we  have  already 
said,  and  as  in  justice  to  Herodotus  should  never  be  forgotten, 
this  faithful  historical  reporter  generally  introduced  the 
things  which  we  are  forced  to  regard  as  not  true,  under  a 
sufficiently  distinct  caveat  of  warning  to  the  reader  that  the 
author  was  simply  telling  a  tale  as  it  was  told  to  him. 

Herodotus  was  very  painstaking  in  his  efforts  to  gain  infor- 
mation. He  traveled  extensively.  His  work  is,  indeed,  al- 
most as  much  a  book  of  travels  as  it  is  a  book  of  history. 
The  very  name  by  which  he  called  it  indicates  this  as  its 
character.  For  the  word  history,  in  the  use  of  Herodotus, 
meant,  not  what  it  has  come  in  present  universal  usage  to 
mean,  namely,  a  supposedly  trustworthy  account,  written 
with  a  degree  of  philosophical  insight  into  cause  and  effect, 
of  transactions  rising  to  a  certain  height  of  importance  and 
dignity;  but  merely  a  report  of  investigations,  researches, 
inquiries,  undertaken  by  the  author.  This  primary  import 
of  his  name  for  his  work  is  constantly  to  be  borne  in  mind, 
as  a  condition  essential  to  any  wise  estimate  of  the  merit  and 
value  of  Herodotus. 


Herodotus.  19 


But,  however  Herodotus  failed  in  the  critical  and  philo- 
sophical aptitudes  required  to  equip  the  ideal  historian, 
certainly  there  was  not  wanting  to  him  wisdom,  or  felicity, 
to  choose  for  treatment  an  historical  subject  of  commanding 
magnitude  and  interest.  In  truth,  there  is  a  kind  of  epic 
majesty  and  sweep  to  the  conception  of  Herodotus's  work. 
He  felt  himself  to  be,  and  he  was,  something  of  a  poet  in  his 
history.  It  was  perhaps  in  recognition  of  this  poetical  quality 
in  Herodotus  that  the  ancients  divided  his  work  into  nine 
parts,  to  us  known  as  books,  inscribed  severally  with  the 
names  of  the  nine  Muses.  Poetical  may,  too,  have  been  in 
part  the  motive  that  led  him  to  write  in  the  Ionic  dialect, 
which  he  had  to  acquire,  rather  than  in  the  Dorian  dialect,  to 
which  he  was  born.  The  preference  was  acknowledgment, 
no  doubt,  of  influence  received  from  the  example  and  inspi- 
ration of  Homer.  Prose  had  hardly  begun  to  be  written  in 
Greek,  when  Herodotus  undertook  the  task  of  composing 
his  history.  Prose  writers,  indeed,  had  preceded,  but  they 
were  so  far  inferior  to  Herodotus  that  he  seems  rather  to  be 
his  own  sole  master  in  style,  than  to  be  the  pupil  of  any  pred- 
ecessors. 

Here  is  the  modest,  simple,  almost  unconscious,  way  in 
which,  stating  his  own  subject  and  object,  he  commences  his 
history : 

These  are  the  researches  of  Herodotus  of  Halicamassus,  which  he 
publishes,  in  the  hope  of  thereby  preserving  from  decay  the  remembrance 
of  what  men  have  done,  and  of  preventing  the  great  and  wonderful 
actions  of  the  Greeks  and  the  Barbarians  from  losing  their  due  meed  of 
glory ;  and  withal  to  put  on  record  what  were  their  grounds  of  feud. 

Contrast  with  the  foregoing  the  elaborate  and  stately 
periods  in  which  Macaulay  sets  forth  his  aim  in  writing  his 
history  of  England.  Judgments  will  probably  vary  as  to 
how  far  the  more  demonstrative  style  of  the  great  English 
master  is  due  to  a  really  higher  conception,  on  his  part,  of 
his  work,  how  far  to  the  quite  legitimate  influence  of  a  more 


20  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

advanced  and  complex  type  of  civilization  environing  him, 
and  how  far  to  a  both  general  and  individual  taste  less 
chastened  and  severe. 

"  Herodotus  of  Hal-i-car-nas'sus,"  the  writer  calls  himself. 
Halicarnassus  was  a  Dorian  Greek  colony  on  the  coast  of 
Asia  Minor.  In  Halicarnassus,  then,  about  484  B.  C, 
Herodotus  was  born.  During  one  period  of  his  life  he 
spent  a  number  of  years  in  Athens.  This  was  probably 
after  he  had  written  a  good  part  of  his  history.  At  Athens — 
and,  during  his  residence  at  Athens,  in  other  Grecian  cities — 
Herodotus,  so  runs  the  tradition,  read  his  enchanting  story 
aloud  to  eager  audiences  of  Greeks.  It  is  in  connection 
with  such  a  recital,  said  to  have  been  given  at  Olympia,  that 
a  pleasing  legend  is  told  of  young  Thucydides  as  one  of  the 
hearers  of  Herodotus.  They  say  that  Thucydides  wept  on 
the  occasion,  and  was  moved  by  the  experience  of  that  day 
to  turn  his  own  attention  to  the  writing  of  history.  From 
Athens,leaving  behind  him  there  a  brilliant  society  of  intellect- 
ual peers — it  was  that  "golden  prime,"  the  ageof  Per'i-cles — 
Herodotus  removed  with  an  Athenian  colony  to  Thu'ri-i,  in 
Italy,  where  he  spent  many  years  completing,  elaborating, 
and  retouching  his  history.  When  and  where  he  died  is  not 
certainly  known. 

Beyond  what  has  now  been  related,  nothing  material 
that  rests  on  any  trustworthy  authority  remains  to  be  said  of 
the  life  of  Herodotus.  His  early  travels,  undertaken  for  the 
sake  of  his  history,  might  seem  to  imply  that  he  had  some 
private  fortune  on  which,  year  after  year,  he  could  draw  to 
meet  the  demands  of  a  mode  of  life  so  very  expensive.  But 
it  would  have  been  not  unlike  a  typical  Greek,  if,  with  his 
literary  quest,  he  had  combined  some  quest  of  business  to 
make  his  journeyings  pay  their  own  way. 

It  will  have  been  observed  that  Herodotus  puts  his  object 
in  composing  his  history  into  a  form  of  statement  sufficiently 
large  and  vague  to  admit  of  much  freedom  and  latitude  in 


Herodotus. '  21 


treatment.  "  The  Greeks  and  the  Barbarians  "  made  up  to 
Herodotus  the  whole  world  of  mankind.  However,  when 
Herodotus  here  said  the  Barbarians,  he,  of  course,  must  have 
meant  chiefly  the  Asiatics.  At  least  it  is  of  the  hostile  his- 
torical contact  between  the  Greeks  and  the  Asiatics,  es- 
pecially between  the  Greeks  and  the  Persians,  with  what 
led  up  to  that  contact,  that  his  narrative  treats.  The 
ultimate  objective  points  at  which  he  aims  are,  first,  Mar'a- 
thon,  and  then  Ther-mop'y-lae  and  Sal'amis,  with  Pla-tae'a 
and  Myc'a-le  in  sequel.  But  to  reach  these  points,  the 
history  takes  a  long  start  from  the  origin  of  the  Persian  em- 
pire, nay,  from  the  origin  of  those  empires  older  than  the 
Persian  which  in  due  time  the  Persian  received  and  swal- 
lowed up.  You  might  suppose  that  Herodotus,  being  a 
Greek,  would  magnify  and  glorify  the  Barbarians,  if  at  all, 
only  in  order  the  more  to  magnify  and  glorify  the  Greeks  by 
whom  in  the  end  the  Barbarians  were  successfully  withstood. 
But  this  is  not  the  case.  Herodotus  displays  a  genuine 
cosmopolitan  spirit.  Without  ulterior  rhetorical  aim,  he 
gives  the  Barbarian  full  praise,  and  he  does  not  spare  full 
due  of  blame  to  the  Greek. 

It  falls  within  the  generously  comprehensive  design  of  this 
history  to  treat  of  Lydia,  of  Egypt,  of  Babylon,  of  Scythia,  of 
Libya,  as  well  as  of  Persia  and  Greece.  Whoever  of  our 
readers  has  leisure  for  the  purpose  would  find  a  perusal  of 
the  entire  text  of  Herodotus  a  genuine  recreation.  There  is 
a  satisfactory  English  translation  accessible,  from  the  hand 
of  Mr.  George  Rawlinson,  enriched  with  copious  notes  from 
two  eminent  scholars  and  archaeologists,  namely.  Sir  Henry 
Rawlinson  and  Sir  J.  G.  Wilkinson.  From  this  translation 
we  take  the  extracts  with  which  we  now  proceed  to  give  our 
readers  their  taste  of  Herodotus. 

We  could  easily  fill  all  the  pages  of  the  present  volume 
with  such  selections  from  Herodotus  as  would  delight  every 
reader.     Our  difficulty  will  be,  not  in  finding,  but  in  setting 


22  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

aside.  The  book  on  Egypt  has  a  peculiar  interest  from  the 
fact  of  its  being  the  only  literature  to  furnish  information 
concerning  that  country  parallel  with  the  information  con- 
tained in  the  Bible.  The  account  of  Babylon  is  also  very  in- 
viting. On  the  whole,  however,  we  limit  ourselves  chiefly 
here  to  two  other  parts  of  the  history.  The  first  of  these  is 
the  story  of  Croesus,  (Kre'sus,)  and  the  second  is  the  invasion 
of  Xerxes  (Zerks'ez.)  In  these  two  parts  as  much  interest 
centres  as  in  any,  and  they  together  illustrate  best  the  pe- 
culiar theory  of  human  life  upon  which  Herodotus  conceived 
and  composed  his  history.  This  pensive-minded  man  saw 
in  all  human  experience  constantly  recurring  proofs  that  the 
gods  envied  and  revenged  excessive  prosperity.  His  whole 
narrative  is,  as  it  were,  an  illustrated  homily  on  this  idea  for 
text. 

Croesus  is  that  Lydian  monarch  of  whom  every  body  has 
heard  as  the  proverb  of  wealth.  Some  readers  may  recall 
an  allusion  to  him  and  his  fate  contained  in  the  Preparatory 
Greek  Course  in  English.  He  was  an  Asiatic  despot,  but  he 
was  an  unusually  attractive  representative  of  his  kind. 
Herodotus  has  made  for  us  a  delightful  romance  of  the  for- 
tunes of  Croesus. 

It  is  as  having,  according  to  Herodotus,  been  the  first 
Asiatic  to  commence  hostilities  against  the  Greeks,  that 
Croesus  comes  in  our  historian's  way.  Croesus  brought  under 
his  dominion  the  Greek  colonies  in  Asia  Minor.  The  Lydian 
Empire  was  now  at  its  height.  Sardis,  the  capital,  was  a 
metropolis  of  wealth  and  culture.  It  became  a  resort  for 
the  sages  of  Greece.  Croesus  welcomed  these  to  his  court 
with  something  of  the  same  munificence  and  grace  of  royal 
hospitality  that,  in  his  time,  Louis  XIV.  exercised  at  Ver- 
sailles. Among  the  Greek  celebrities  to  visit  Sardis  was  Solon, 
whom  Croesus  made  his  own  guest,  lodging  him  in  his  palace. 
We  now  let  Herodotus  take  up  the  story  in  his  own  charm- 
ingly simple,  pellucid,  and  withal  loitering  narrative  strain : 


Herodotus.  23 


He  [Croesus]  bade  his  servants  conduct  Solon  over  his  treasuries,  and 
show  him  all  their  greatness  and  magnificence.  When  he  had  seen  them 
all,  and,  so  far  as'time  allowed,  inspected  them,  Croesus  addressed  this 
question  to  him :  "  Stranger  of  Athens,  we  have  heard  much  of  thy 
wisdom  and  of  thy  travels  through  many  lands,  from  love  of  knowledge 
and  a  wish  to  see  the  world.  I  am  curious,  therefore,  to  inquire  of  thee, 
whom,  of  all  the  men  that  thou  hast  seen,  thou  deemest  the  most  happy  ?" 
This  he  asked  because  he  thought  himself  the  happiest  of  mortals  :  but 
Solon  answered  him  without  flattery,  according  to  his  true  sentiments, 
"Tellus  of  Athens,  sire."  Full  of  astonishment  at  what  he  heard, 
Croesus  demanded  sharply,  "And  wherefore  dost  thou  deem  Tellus 
happiest?"  To  which  the  other  replied,  "First,  because  his  country 
was  flourishing  in  his  days,  and  he  himself  had  sons  both  beautiful 
and  good,  and  he  lived  to  see  children  bom  to  each  of  them,  and  these 
children  all  grew  up  ;  and  further  because,  after  a  life  spent  in  what  our 
people  look  upon  as  comfort,  his  end  was  surpassingly  glorious.  In  a 
battle  between  the  Athenians  and  their  neighbors  near  Eleusis,  he 
came  to  the  assistance  of  his  countrymen,  routed  the  foe,  and  died  upon 
the  field  most  gallantly.  The  Athenians  gave  him  a  public  funeral  on 
the  spot  where  he  fell,  and  paid  him  the  highest  honors." 

Thus  did  Solon  admonish  Croesus  by  the  example  of  Tellus,  enumerat- 
ing the  manifold  particulars  of  his  happiness.  When  he  had  ended, 
Croesus  inquired  a  second  time,  who  after  Tellus  seemed  to  him  the 
happiest,  expecting  that,  at  any  rate,  he  would  be  given  the  second 
place.  "  Cle'o-bis  and  Bi'to,"  Solon  answered  ;  '*  they  were  of  Argive 
race ;  their  fortune  was  enough  for  their  wants,  and  they  were  besides 
endowed  with  so  much  bodily  strength  that  they  had  both  gained  prizes 
at  the  Games.  Also  this  tale  is  told  of  them:  There  was  a  great 
festival  in  honor  of  the  goddess  Juno  at  Argos,  to  which  their  mother 
must  needs  be  taken  in  a  car.  Now  the  oxen  did  not  come  home  from 
the  field  in  time  ;  so  the  youths,  fearful  of  being  too  late,  put  the  yoke  on 
their  own  necks,  and  themselves  drew  the  car  in  which  their  mother 
rode.  Five  and  forty  furlongs  did  they  draw  her,  and  stopped  before 
the  temple.  This  deed  of  theirs  was  witnessed  by  the  whole  assembly  of 
worshipers,  and  then  their  life  closed  in  the  best  possible  way.  Herein, 
too,  God  showed  forth  most  evidently  how  much  better  a  thing  for 
man  death  is  than  life.  For  the  Argive  men  stood  thick  around  the  car 
and  extolled  the  vast  strength  of  the  youths;  and  the  Argive  warriors 
extolled  the  mother  who  was  blessed  with  such  a  pair  of  sons  ;  and  the 
mother  herself,  overjoyed  at  the  deed  and  at  the  praises  it  had  won, 
standing  straight  before  the  image,  besought  the  goddess  to  bestow  on 


24  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Cleobis  and  Bito,  the  sons  who  had  so  mightily  honored  her,  the 
highest  blessing  to  which  mortals  can  attain.  Her  prayer  ended,  they 
offered  sacrifice,  and  partook  of  the  holy  banquet,  after  which  the  two 
youths  fell  asleep  in  the  temple.  They  never  woke  more,  but  so  passed 
from  the  earth.  The  Argives,  looking  on  them  as  among  the  best 
of  men,  caused  statues  of  them  to  be  made,  which  they  gave  to  the 
shrine  at  Delphi." 

When  Solon  had  thus  assigned  these  youths  the  second  place,  Croesus 
broke  in  angrily,  "  What !  stranger  of  Athens,  is  my  happiness,  then, 
so  utterly  set  at  naught  by  thee,  that  thou  dost  not  even  put  me  on  a 
level  with  private  men  ?  " 

"O  Croesus,"  replied  the  other,  "thou  askedst  a  question  concern- 
ing the  condition  of  man,  of  one  who  knows  that  the  power  above  us  is 
full  of  jealousy,  and  fond  of  troubling  our  lot.  A  long  life  gives  one  to 
witness  much,  and  experience  much  one's  self,  that  one  would  not  choose. 
Seventy  years  I  regard  as  the  limit  of  the  life  of  man.  In  these  seventy 
years  are  contained,  without  reckoning  intercalary  months,  twenty-five 
thousand  and  two  hundred  days.  Add  an  intercalary  month  to  every 
other  year,  that  the  seasons  may  come  round  at  the  right  time,  and  there 
will  be,  besides  the  seventy  years,  thirty-five  such  months,  making  an 
addition  of  one  thousand  and  fifty  days.  The  whole  number  of  the 
days  contained  in  the  seventy  years  will  thus  be  twenty-six  thousand 
two  hundred  and  fifty,  whereof  not  one  but  will  produce  events  unlike 
the  rest.  Hence  man  is  wholly  accident.  For  thyself,  O  Croesus,  I 
see  that  thou  art  wonderfully  rich,  and  art  the  lord  of  many  nations  ;  but 
with  respect  to  that  whereon  thou  questionest  me,  I  have  no  answer  to 
give,  until  I  hear  that  thou  hast  closed  thy  life  happily.  For  assuredly 
he  who  possesses  great  store  of  riches  is  no  nearer  happiness  than  he 
who  has  what  suffices  for  his  daily  needs,  unless  it  so  hap  that  luck 
attend  upon  him,  and  so  he  continue  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  his  good 
things  to  the  end  of  life.  For  many  of  the  wealthiest  men  have  been 
unfavored  of  fortune,  and  many  whose  means  were  moderate,  have  had 
excellent  luck.  Men  of  the  former  class  excel  those  of  the  latter  but  in 
two  respects  ;  these  last  excel  the  former  in  many.  The  wealthy  man  is 
better  able  to  content  his  desires,  and  to  bear  up  against  a  sudden  buffet 
of  calamity.  The  other  has  less  ability  to  withstand  these  evils,  (from 
which,  however,  his  good  luck  keeps  him  clear,)  but  he  enjoys  all  these 
following  blessings  :  he  is  whole  of  limb,  a  stranger  to  disease,  free  from 
misfortune,  happy  in  his  children,  and  comely  to  look  upon.  If,  in 
addition  to  all  this,  he  end  his  life  well,  he  is  of  a  truth  the  man  of 
whom  thou  art  in  search,  the  man  who  may  rightly  be  termed  happy. 


Herodotus.  25 


Call  him,  however,  until  he  die,  not  happy,  but  fortunate.  Scarcely, 
indeed,  can  any  man  unite  all  these  advantages :  as  there  is  no  country 
which  contains  within  it  all  that  it  needs,  but  each,  while  it  possesses 
some  things,  lacks  others,  and  the  best  country  is  that  which  contains 
the  most ;  so  no  single  human  being  is  complete  in  every  respect — some- 
thing is  always  lacking.  He  who  unites  the  greatest  number  of  advan- 
tages, and  retaining  them  to  the  day  of  his  death  then  dies  peaceably, 
that  man  alone,  sire,  is,  in  my  judgment,  entitled  to  bear  the  name  of 
'  happy.'  But  in  every  matter  it  behoves  us  to  mark  well  the  end  :  for 
oftentimes  God  gives  men  a  gleam  of  happiness,  and  then  plunges  them 
into  ruin." 

Such  was  the  speech  which  Solon  addressed  to  Croesus,  a  speech 
which  brought  him  neither  largess  nor  honor.  The  king  saw  him  depart 
with  much  indifference,  since  he  thought  that  a  man  must  be  an  arrant 
fool  who  made  no  account  of  present  good,  but  bade  men  always  wait 
and  mark  the  end. 

After  Solon  had  gone  away,  a  dreadful  vengeance,  sent  of  God,  came 
upon  Croesus,  to  punish  him,  it  is  likely,  for  deeming;  himself  the  happiest 
of  men. 

In  the  last  sentence  foregoing,  Herodotus,  as  the  reader 
will  notice,  lets  slip  that  favorite  philosophy  of  his  concerning 
human  life.  The  gods,  he  believed,  were  jealous  against  the 
too  prosperous.  The  story  of  Croesus  is  made  by  him  a  kind 
of  romance  with  a  purpose — the  purpose  being  to  inculcate 
this  moral.  The  dreadful  vengeance  impending,  of  which 
Herodotus  speaks,  is  circumstantially  narrated  through 
several  of  his  pages.  The  substance  is  as  follows :  Croesus 
dreamed  that  of  his  two  sons,  his  favorite,  A'tys,  a  noble 
youth,  would  perish  by  a  weapon  of  iron.  The  apprehensive 
father  took  elaborate  precautions  to  save  the  life  of  his  son. 
He  had  the  youth  marry  and  give  up  the  chances  of  war. 
Vain  was  the  paternal  care.  In  a  boar-hunt — the  prince 
having  begged  the  privilege  of  joining  it,  with  the  argument 
to  his  father  that  the  boar  at  least  had  no  weapon  of  iron  to 
be  guarded  against— Atys  was  slain  by  a  spear  from  the  hand 
of  a  huntsman,  hurled,  with  wrong  aim,  at  the  beast.  Two 
years  Croesus  mourned  the  loss  of  his  son.  At  the  end  of 
2 


26  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

this  time,  news  arrived  at  his  court  that  interrupted  his 
indulgence  of  grief.  It  was  news  of  Cyrus's  progress  in 
power  as  king  of  the  Persians.  Croesus  sent  to  Delphi — 
having  first  tested  various  oracles  of  repute  and  been  with 
that  at  Delphi  best  satisfied — to  inquire  whether  he  should 
make  war  upon  Cyrus.  He  got  for  reply  a  doubtfully 
encouraging  message:  *If  he  made  war  upon  Cyrus,  he 
would  overthrow  a  great  empire.*  Whose  empire,  his  own  or 
Cyrus's  }  That  was  the  question — but  it  was  not  a  question 
with  Croesus. 

Croesus  had  got  one  oracular  reply  to  his  mind,  and  he 
wanted  another.  The  Delphian  authorities  were  willing 
to  gratify  so  munificent  an  inquirer.  For  would  our  readers 
like  to  know  what  Croesus  had  paid  of  his  own  accord  in 
advance  for  the  ambiguous  response  that  pleased  him  so  } 
Well,  he  first  sacrificed  three  thousand  beasts  of  every  kind 
proper  for  sacrifice,  and  having  accumulated  "  couches  coated 
with  silver  and  with  gold,  and  golden  goblets  and  robes  and 
vests  of  purple,"  he  burned  them  all  in  ofl'ering  to  the  god. 
He  next  "  melted  over  a  vast  quantity  of  gold  and  ran  it 
into  ingots,"  in  number  one  hundred  and  seventeen,  each 
weighing  about  two  hundred  and  seventy  pounds,  (French.) 
These  massy  gold  ingots,  together  with  a  statue  in  gold  of  a 
lion,  two  capacious  bowls,  one  of  silver  and  one  of  gold; 
four  silver  casks ;  two  vases,  one  of  silver  and  one  of  gold ; 
the  figure  of  a  woman  in  solid  gold ;  and,  in  addition,  his 
queen's  necklace  and  her  girdles,  he  sent  to  Delphi  to  pro- 
pitiate Apollo.  The  foregoing  is,  according  to  Herodotus, 
but  a  partial  list  of  Croesus's  presents  to  the  oracle.  It  is 
probable  that  this  account  is  neither  fabulous  altogether,  nor 
even  fabulously  extravagant.  The  river  Pac-to'lus,  said  to 
have  brought  down  sands  of  gold,  flowed  through  the  Lydian 
capital,  Sardis.  Croesus's  father  had,  through  many  "  days 
ordered  in  a  wealthy  peace,"  amassed  treasure  for  bequeath- 
ing to  his  son.     There  is   no  reason  to  doubt  that  Croesus 


Herodotus.  27 


was,  indeed,  the  enormously  rich  man  he  is  represented  to 
have  been.     And  he  was  lavish  in  proportion. 

As  we  said,  Croesus  was  hungry  for  a  second  oracular 
response.  He  sent  to  ask  whether  his  kingdom  would  be  of 
long  duration.  The  Pythoness,  Apollo's  organ  of  prophecy, 
gave  this  reply,  versified,  according  to  custom  : 

"Wait  till  the  time  shall  come  when  a  mule  is  monarch  of  Media ; 
Then,  thou  delicate  Lydian,  away  to  the  pebbles  of  Hermus, 
Haste,  0  !  haste  thee  away,  nor  blush  to  behave  like  a  coward." 

The  sequel  will  show  our  readers  how  this  enigmatical 
response  could  bear  an  interpretation  very  different  from 
the  obvious  one  which  Croesus  complacently  put  upon  it. 

On  the  strength  of  his  two  oracular  assurances,  the  Lydian" 
monarch  went  about  his  war  against  Cyrus.  This  Cyrus,  it 
must  be  understood,  is  Cyrus  the  Elder,  or  Cyrus  the  Great, 
the  founder  of  the  Persian  Empire.  While  war  was  thus  pre- 
paring, a  certain  Lydian  came  forward  and  gave  his  sovereign 
some  excellent  advice,  which  Herodotus  reports  and  remarks 
upon,  as  follows  : 

*'  Thou  art  about,  O,  King,  to  make  war  against  men  who  wear 
leathern  trousers,  and  have  all  their  other  garments  of  leather  ;  who 
feed  not  on  what  they  like,  but  on  what  they  can  get  from  a  soil  that  is 
sterile  and  unkindly  ;  who  do  not  indulge  in  wine,  but  drink  water  ;  who 
possess  no  figs,  nor  any  thing  else  that  is  good  to  eat.  If,  then,  thou 
conquerest  them,  what  canst  thou  get  from  them,  seeing  that  they  have 
nothing  at  all  ?  But  if  they  conquer  thee,  consider  how  much  that  is 
precious  thou  wilt  lose :  if  they  once  get  a  taste  of  our  pleasant  things, 
they  will  keep  such  hold  of  them  that  we  shall  never  be  able  to  make 
them  loose  their  grasp.  For  my  part,  I  am  thankful  to  the  gods,  that 
they  have  not  put  it  into  the  hearts  of  the  Persians  to  invade  Lydia." 

Croesus  was  not  persuaded  by  this  speech,  though  it  was  true  enough; 
for  before  the  conquest  of  Lydia,  the  Persians  possessed  none  of  the 
luxuries  or  delights  of  life. 

Cyrus  did  not  wait  for  Croesus.  The  first  encounter  proved 
a  drawn  battle.  Croesus  retired  within  his  capital,  intend- 
ing to  resume  hostilities  in  the  spring.     He  little  knew  the 


28  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

character  of  his  antagonist.  Cyrus  advanced  unannounced 
on  Sardis.  The  Lydians  were  amazed,  but  they  went  out- 
side of  their  walls,  and  gave  their  enemies  battle.  To  the 
Lydian  cavalry,  Croesus's  strong  military  arm,  Cyrus  opposed 
a  troop  of  camels.  At  the  first  smell  of  the  camels  the 
horses  turned  back.  Croesus  was  defeated,  and  he  had  now 
to  stand  a  siege  within  the  walls  of  his  capital. 

We  may  seize  the  opportunity,  while  this  siege  is  in  prog- 
ress, to  illustrate  somewhat  more  fully  the  historical  method 
of  Herodotus.  We  go  back  a  little  to  find  a  bit  of  supersti- 
tious fable  with  which,  according  to  his  wont,  our  author 
thought  fit  to  delay  and  diversify  his  narrative.  Croesus, 
^fter  that  first  indecisive  engagement,  is  nourishing  his  falla- 
cious sense  of  security  against  offensive  action  proceeding 
from  Cyrus.     Herodotus  now  : 

While  Crcesus  was  still  in  this  mind,  all  the  suburbs  of  Sardis  were 
found  to  swarm  with  snakes,  on  the  appearance  of  which  the  horses  left 
feeding  in  the  pasture-grounds,  and  flocked  to  the  suburbs  to  eat  them. 
The  king,  who  witnessed  the  unusual  sight,  regarded  it  very  rightly  as  a 
prodigy.  He,  therefore,  instantly  sent  messengers  to  the  soothsayers  of 
Telmessus  to  consult  them  upon  the  matter.  His  messengers  reached 
the  city,  and  obtained  from  the  Telmessians  an  explanation  of  what  the 
prodigy  portended,  but  fate  did  not  allow  them  to  inform  their  lord  ;  for 
ere  they  entered  Sardis  on  their  return,  Croesus  was  a  prisoner.  What 
the  Telmessians  had  declared  was,  that  Croesus  must  look  for  the  entry 
of  an  army  of  foreign  invaders  into  his  country,  and  that  when  they 
came  they  would  subdue  the  native  inhabitants  ;  since  the  snake,  said 
they,  is  a  child  of  earth,  and  the  horse,  a  warrior  and  a  foreigner. 
Croesus  was  already  a  prisoner  when  the  Telmessians  thus  answered  his 
inquiry,  but  they  had  no  knowledge  of  what  was  taking  place  at  Sardis, 
or  of  the  fate  of  the  monarch. 

Cyrus  takes  Sardis ;  but  our  interest  centres  about  the 
person  and  fortune  of  Croesus.     Herodotus  again  : 

With  respect  to  Croesus  himself  this  is  what  befell  him  at  the  taking 
of  the  town.  He  had  a  son,  of  whom  I  made  mention  above,  a  worthy 
youth,  whose  only  defect  was  that  he  was  deaf  and  dumb.  In  the  days 
of  his  prosperity  Crcesus  had  done  the  utmost  that  he  could  for  him,  and 


Herodotus.  29 


among  other  plans  which  he  had  devised,  had  sent  to  Delphi  to  consult 
the  oracle  on  his  behalf.  The  answer  which  he  had  received  from  the 
Pythoness  ran  thus : 

"  Lydian,  wide-ruling  monarch,  thou  wondrous  simple  Croesus, 
Wish  not  ever  to  hear  in  thy  palace  the  voice  thou  hast  prayed  for, 
Uttering  intelligent  sounds.     Far  better  thy  son  should  be  silent ! 
Ah  !  woe  worth  the  day  when  thine  ear  shall  first  list  to  his  accents." 

"When  the  town  was  taken,  one  of  the  Persians  was  just  going  to  kill 
Croesus,  not  knowing  who  he  was.  Croesus  saw  the  man  coming,  but, 
under  the  pressure  of  his  affliction,  did  not  care  to  avoid  the  blow,  not 
minding  whether  or  no  he  died  beneath  the  stroke.  Then  this  son  of 
his,  who  was  voiceless,  beholding  the  Persian  as  he  rushed  toward 
Croesus,  in  the  agony  of  his  fear  and  grief,  burst  into  speech  and  said  : 
'•  Man,  do  not  kill  Croesus."  This  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever 
spoken  a  word,  but  afterward  he  retained  the  power  of  speech  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life. 

Thus  was  Sardis  taken  by  the  Persians,  and  Croesus  himself  fell  into 
their  hands,  after  having  reigned  fourteen  years,  and  been  besieged  in 
his  capital  fourteen  days  ;  thus,  too,  did  Croesus  fulfill  the  oracle,  which 
said  that  he  should  destroy  a  mighty  empire — ^by  destroying  his  own. 
Then  the  Persians  who  had  made  Croesus  prisoner  brought  him  before 
Cyrus.  Now  a  vast  pile  had  been  raised  by  his  orders,  and  Croesus, 
laden  with  fetters,  was  placed  upon  it,  and  with  him  twice  seven  of  the  sons 
of  the  Lydians.  I  know  not  whether  Cyrus  was  minded  to  make  an 
offering  of  the  first-fruits  to  some  god  or  other,  or  whether  he  had  vowed 
a  vow  and  was  performing  it,  or  whether,  as  may  well  be,  he  had  heard 
that  Croesus  was  a  holy  man,  and  so  wished  to  see  if  any  of  the  heaven- 
ly powers  would  appear  to  save  him  from  being  burnt  alive.  However 
it  might  be,  Cyrus  was  thus  engaged,  and  Croesus  was  already  on  the 
pile,  when  it  entered  his  mind  in  the  depth  of  his  woe  that  there  was  a. 
divine  warning  in  the  words  which  had  come  to  him  from  the  lips  of 
Solon  :  "  No  one  while  he  lives  is  happy."  When  this  thought  smote 
him  he  fetched  a  long  breath,  and  breaking  his  deep  silence  groaned 
out  aloud,  thrice  uttering  the  name  of  Solon.  Cyrus  caught  the  sounds, 
and  bade  the  interpreters  inquire  of  Croesus  who  it  was  he  called  on. 
They  drew  near  and  asked  him,  but  he  held  his  peace,  and  for  a  long 
time  made  no  answer  to  their  questionings,  until  at  length,  forced  to  say 
something,  he  exclaimed,  "  One  I  would  give  much  to  see  converse  with 
every  monarch."  Not  knowing  what  he  meant  by  this  reply,  the  inter- 
preters begged  him  to  explain  himself;  and  as  they  pressed  for  an  an- 


30  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

swer,  and  grew  to  be  troublesome,  he  told  them  how,  a  long  time  before, 
Solon,  an  Athenian,  had  come  and  seen  all  his  splendor,  and  made 
light  of  it ;  and  how  whatever  he  had  said  to  him  had  fallen  out  exactly 
as  he  foreshowed,  although  it  was  nothing  that  especially  concerned  him, 
but  applied  to  all  mankind  alike,  and  most  to  those  who  seemed  to 
themselves  happy.  Meanwhile,  as  he  thus  spoke,  the  pile  was  lighted, 
and  the  outer  portion  began  to  blaze.  Then  Cyrus,  hearing  from  the 
interpreters  what  Croesus  had  said,  relented,  bethinking  himself  that  he, 
too,  was  a  man,  and  that  it  was  a  fellow-man,  and  one  who  had  once  been 
as  blessed  by  fortune  as  himself,  that  he  was  burning  alive  ;  afraid,  more- 
over, of  retribution,  and  full  of  the  thought  that  whatever  is  human  is 
insecure.  So  he  bade  them  quench  the  blazing  fire  as  quickly  as  they 
could,  and  take  down  Croesus  and  the  other  Lydians,  which  they  tried 
to  do,  but  the  flames  were  not  to  be  mastered. 

Then  the  Lydians  say  that  Croesus,  perceiving  by  the  efforts  made  to 
quench  the  fire  that  Cyrus  had  relented,  and  seeing  also  that  all  was  in 
vain,  and  that  the  men  could  not  get  the  fire  under,  called  with  a  loud 
voice  upon  the  god  Apollo,  and  prayed  him,  if  he  had  ever  received  at 
his  hands  any  acceptable  gift,  to  come  to  his  aid,  and  deliver  him  from 
his  present  danger.  As  thus  with  tears  he  besought  the  god,  suddenly, 
though  up  to  that  time  the  sky  had  been  clear  and  the  day  without  a 
breath  of  wind,  dark  clouds  gathered,  and  the  storm  burst  over  their 
heads  with  rain  of  such  violence,  that  the  flames  were  speedily  extin- 
guished. Cyrus,  convinced  by  this  that  Croesus  was  a  good  man  and  a 
favorite  of  heaven,  asked  him,  after  he  was  taken  off  the  pile,  who  it 
was  that  had  persuaded  him  to  lead  an  army  into  his  country,  and  so 
become  his  foe  rather  than  continue  his  friend?  to  which  Croesus  made 
answer  as  follows  :  "  What  I  did,  O  king,  was  to  thy  advantage  and 
to  my  own  loss.  If  there  be  blame,  it  rests  with  the  god  of  the  Greeks, 
who  encouraged  me  to  begin  the  war.  No  one  is  so  foolish  as  not  to  pre- 
fer peace  to  war,  in  which,  instead  of  sons  burying  their  fathers,  fathers 
bury  their  sons.     But  the  gods  willed  it  so." 

Thus  did  Croesus  speak.  Cyrus  then  ordered  his  fetters  to  be  taken 
off,  and  made  him  sit  down  near  himself,  and  paid  him  much  respect, 
looking  upon  him,  as  did  also  the  courtiers,  with  a  sort  of  wonder. 
Croesus,  wrapped  in  thought,  uttered  no  word.  After  a  while,  happen- 
ing to  turn  and  perceive  the  Persian  soldiers  engaged  in  plundering  the 
town,  he  said  to  Cyrus,  "  May  I  now  tell  thee,  O  king,  what  I  have  in 
my  mind,  or  is  silence  best?"  Cyrus  bade  him  speak  his  mind  boldly. 
Then  he  put  this  question :  "  What  is  it,  O  Cyrus,  which  those  men 
yonder  are  doing  so  busily?"  "Plundering  thy  city,"  Cyrus  answered, 


Herodotus. 


'*  and  carrying  off  thy  riches."  "  Not  my  city,"  rejoined  the  other,  "  nor 
my  riches.  They  are  not  mine  any  more.  It  is  thy  wealth  which  they 
are  pillaging." 

Cyrus,  struck  by  what  Croesus  had  said,  bade  all  the  court  to  with- 
draw, and  then  asked  Croesus  what  he  thought  it  best  for  him  to  do  as 
regarded  the  plundering.  Croesus  answered  :  '  *  Now  that  the  gods  have 
made  me  thy  slave,  O  Cyrus,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  my  part,  if  I  see 
any  thing  to  thy  advantage,  to  show  it  to  thee.  Thy  subjects,  the  Per- 
sians, are  a  poor  people,  with  a  proud  spirit.  If,  then,  thou  lettest  them 
pillage  and  possess  themselves  of  great  wealth,  I  will  tell  thee  what 
thou  hast  to  expect  at  their  hands.  The  man  who  gets  the  most, 
look  to  having  him  rebel  against  thee.  Now  then,  if  my  words  please 
thee,  do  thus,  O  king :  Let  some  of  thy  body-guards  be  placed  as 
sentinels  at  each  of  the  city  gates,  and  let  them  take  their  booty  from 
the  soldiers  as  they  leave  the  town,  and  tell  them  that  they  do  so  because 
the  tenths  are  due  to  Jupiter.  So  wilt  thou  escape  the  hatred  they 
would  feel  if  the  plunder  were  taken  away  from  them  by  force,  and 
they,  seeing  that  what  is  proposed  is  just,  will  do  it  willingly. 

Cyrus  was  beyond  measure  pleased  with  this  advice,  so  excellent  did 
it  seem  to  him.  He  praised  Croesus  highly,  and  gave  orders  to  his 
body-guard  to  do  as  he  had  suggested.  Then,  turning  to  Croesus,  he 
said  :  "  O  Croesus,  I  see  that  thou  art  resolved  both  in  speech  and 
act  to  show  thyself  a  virtuous  prince  :  ask  me,  therefore,  whatever  thou 
wilt  as  a  gift  at  this  moment."  Croesus  replied;  "O  my  lord,  if  thou 
wilt  suffer  me  to  send  these  fetters  to  the  god  of  the  Greeks,  whom  I 
once  honored  above  all  other  gods,  and  ask  him  if  it  is  his  wont  to  de- 
ceive his  benefactors — that  will  be  the  highest  favour  thou  canst  confer 
on  me."  Cyrus  upon  this  inquired  what  charge  he  had  to  make  against 
the  god. 

Then  Croesus  gave  him  a  full  account  of  all  his  projects,  and  of  the 
answers  of  the  oracle,  and  of  the  offerings  which  he  had  sent,  on  which 
he  dwelt  especially,  and  told  him  how  it  was  the  encouragement  given 
him  by  the  oracle  which  had  led  him  to  make  war  upon  Persia.  All 
this  he  related,  and  at  the  end  again  besought  permission  to  reproach 
the  god  with  his  behavior.  Cyrus  answered  with  a  laugh,  "This  I 
readily  grant  thee,  and  whatever  else  thou  shalt  at  any  time  ask  at  my 
hands."  Croesus,  finding  his  request  allowed,  sent  certain  Lydians  to 
Delphi,  enjoining  them  to  lay  his  fetters  upon  the  threshold  of  the  tem- 
ple, and  ask  the  god,  if  he  were  not  ashamed  of  having  encouraged 
him,  as  the  destined  destroyer  of  the  empire  of  Cyrus,  to  begin  a  war 
with  Persia,  of  which  such  were  the  first-fruits?  As  they  said   this,  they 


32  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

were  to  point  to  the  fetters  ;  and  further  they  were  to  inquire,  if  it  was 
the  wont  of  the  Greek  gods  to  be  ungrateful  ? 

Of  course  Apollo  easily  justified  himself.  He  had  simply 
to  explain  that  Croesus  had  mistaken  the  meaning  of  what 
the  oracle  said.  First,  Croesus  had,  indeed,  destroyed  a  great 
kingdom,  only  it  happened  to  be  his  own  kingdom,  instead 
of  Cyrus's :  secondly,  Cyrus  was  that  mule-king  of  Media 
whom  the  oracle  had  bidden  Croesus  fear — for  Cyrus  was 
born  of  a  Median  mother  to  a  Persian  father, 

Lydia  is  now  dismissed  by  Herodotus,  in  a  few  words  of 
general  description.  With  Croesus  the  historian  is  far  from 
yet  being  done.  Once,  in  connection  with  their  captive 
monarch,  the  subject  Lydians  fall  again  under  notice — in  a 
subsequent  paragraph,  which  we  violate  the  order  of  Herod- 
otus to  introduce  here.  Cyrus  is  annoyed  at  news  of  insur- 
rection against  himself  in  Sardis;  whereupon,  turning  to 
Croesus,  kept  close  by  his  side — the  Persian  conqueror  was 
now  on  his  way  to  Ag-bat'a-na  [Ec-bat'a-na] — he  said,  (we 
give  the  words  of  Herodotus  :) 

"Where  will  all  this  end,  Croesus,  thinkest  thou?  It  seemeth  that 
these  Lydians  will  not  cease  to  cause  trouble  both  to  themselves  and 
others.  I  doubt  me  if  it  were  not  best  to  sell  them  all  for  slaves.  Me- 
thinks  what  I  have  now  done  is  as  if  a  man  were  to  kill  the  father  and 
then  spare  the  child.  Thou,  who  wert  something  more  than  a  father  to 
thy  people,  I  have  seized  and  carried  off,  and  to  that  people  I  have  in- 
trusted their  city.  Can  I  then  feel  surprise  at  their  rebellion  ?  "  Thus 
did  Cyrus  open  to  Croesus  his  thoughts  ;  whereat  the  latter,  full  of 
alarm  lest  Cyms  should  lay  Sardis  in  ruins,  replied  as  follows  :  "  O 
my  king,  thy  words  are  reasonable  ;  but  do  not,  I  beseech  thee,  give  full 
vent  to  thy  anger,  nor  doom  to  destruction  an  ancient  city,  guiltless  alike 
of  the  past  and  of  the  present  trouble.  I  caused  the  one  and  in  my  own 
person  now  pay  the  forfeit.  Pactyas  has  caused  the  other,  he  to  whom 
thou  gavest  Sardis  in  charge  ;  let  him  bear  the  punishment.  Grant,  then, 
forgiveness  to  the  Lydians,  and  to  make  sure  of  their  never  rebelling 
against  thee,  or  alarming  thee  more,  send  and  forbid  them  to  keep  any 
weapons  of  war,  command  them  to  wear  tunics  under  their  cloaks,  and 
to  put  buskins  upon  their  legs,  and  make  them  bring  up  their  sons  to 


Herodotus, 


ZZ 


cithern-playing,  harping,  and  shop-keeping.  So  wilt  thou  soon  see  them 
become  women  instead  of  men,  and  there  will  be  no  more  fear  of  their 
revolting  from  thee." 

Croesus  thought  the  Lydians  would  even  so  be  better  off  than  if  they 
were  sold  for  slaves,  and,  therefore,  gave  the  above  advice  to  Cyrus, 
knowing  that  unless  he  brought  forward  some  notable  suggestion,  he 
would  not  be  able  to  persuade  him  to  alter  his  mind. 

Is  not  history  written  in  the  style  of  Herodotus  delightful  ? 
In  whatever  proportion  true  may  be  the  foregoing  explana- 
tion, suggested  by  our  author,  of  the  fact — the  fact  certainly 
is  that  the  Lydians  became  a  proverb  of  effeminate  refine- 
ment. Their  addiction  to  music  and  pleasure  explains  the 
allusion  in  Milton's  L'Allegro, 

And  ever  against  eating  cares 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 


2* 


KUINS  OF  SASDBk 


34  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Our  readers  would  wish  to  see  with  what  easy  turn  of 
digression  Herodotus  enters  upon  his  retrospective  ac- 
count of  Persian  affairs.  We  recur  to  the  point  at  which  he 
dismissed  the  topic  of  Lydia.     Herodotus  says : 

Thus  far  I  have  been  engaged  in  showing  how  the  Lydians  were 
brought  under  the  Persian  yoke.  The  course  of  my  history  now  com-: 
pels  me  to  inquire  who  this  Cyrus  was  by  whom  the  Lydian  empire  was 
destroyed,  and  by  what  means  the  Persians  had  become  the  lords  para- 
mount of  Asia,  And  herein  I  shall  follow  those  Persian  authorities 
whose  object  it  appears  to  be  not  to  magnify  the  exploits  of  Cyrus,  but 
to  relate  the  simple  truth.  I  know  besides  three  ways  in  which  the 
story  of  Cyrus  is  told,  all  differing  from  my  own  narrative. 

What  with  his  dismissing  and  his  choosing  of  accounts, 
a  highly  romantic  tale  Herodotus  makes  of  the  infancy  and 
youth  of  Cyrus.  We  cannot  now  repeat  it.  With  the  remark 
that  the  germs  of  Xenophon's  romance,  the  Cy-ro-pse-di'a, 
are  here,  return  we  to  our  hero,  Croesus.  But,  on  our  path  of 
'return,  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  caught  by  one  of  those 
flowers  of  legend  with  which  Herodotus  everywhere  so 
thickly  plants  his  vernal  pages.  This  is  but  a  little  wayside 
bloom — we  may  cull  it  as  we  pass.  Of  the  Lycians,  a  people 
conquered  by  Cyrus,  Herodotus  says : 

They  have  one  singular  custom  in  which  they  differ  from  every  other 
nation  in  the  world.  They  take  the  mother's  and  not  the  father's  name. 
Ask  a  Lycian  who  he  is,  and  he  answers  by  giving  his  own  name,  that  of 
his  mother,  and  so  on  in  the  female  line. 

Readers  of  Tennyson  will  remember  an  allusion  in  The 
Princess  which  the  foregoing  passage  explains : 

Appraised  the  Lycian  custom. 

The  allusion  occurs  in  an  abstract  given  by  the  poet  of  a 
lecture  by  Lady  Psyche,  [Si'ke,)  running  rapidly  over  the 
historic  instances  illustrative  of  woman's  relative  position  in 
different  ages  and  countries. 

An  interval  of  fifteen  years  after  the  fall  of  Sardis  has 


Herodotus.  35 


elapsed,  and  Cyrus,  always  apparently  with  Croesus  in  com- 
pany, roars  on  in  his  career  of  conquest.  He  now  marches 
against  Babylon,  which  city,  with  its  wonders,  Herodotus, 
upon  so  obvious  an  occasion,  proceeds  at  great  length  to 
describe.  We  shall  not  have  space  for  the  particulars  of 
this  description.  The  manner  of  the  final  taking  of  Babylon 
by  Cyrus  is  remarkable.  According  to  Herodotus,  he 
adopted  a  plan,  which,  with  the  results  attending  its  execu- 
tion, we  state  in  the  historian's  own  words : 

He  placed  a  portion  of  his  army  at  the  point  where  the  river  [Eu- 
phrates] enters  the  city,  and  another  body  at  the  back  of  the  place  where 
it  issues  forth,  with  orders  to  march  into  the  town  by  t)ie  bed  of  the 
stream,  as  soon  as  the  water  became  shallow  enough  ;  he  then  himself 
drew  off  with  the  unwarlike  portion  of  his  host,  and  made  for  the  place 
where  Ni-to'cris  dug  the  basin  for  the  river,  where  he  did  exactly  what  she 
-  ha<l  done  formerly ;  he  turned  the  Euphrates  by  a  canal  into  the  basin, 
which  was  then  a  marsh,  on  which  the  river  sank  to  such  an  extent  that  the 
natural  bed  of  the  stream  became  fordable.  Hereupon  the  Persians 
who  had  been  left  for  the  purpose  at  Babylon  by  the  river-side,  entered 
the  stream,  which  had  now  sunk  so  as  to  reach  about  midway  up  a  man's 
thigh,  and  thus  got  into  the  town.  Had  the  Babylonians  been  apprised 
of  what  Cyrus  was  about,  or  had  they  noticed  their  danger,  they  would 
not  have  allowed  the  entrance  of  the  Persians  within  the  city,  which  was 
what  ruined  them  utterly,  but  would  have  made  fast  all  the  street  gates 
which  gave  upon  the  river,  and  mounting  upon  the  walls  along  both 
sides  of  the  stream,  would  so  have  caught  the  enemy  as  it  were  in  a 
trap.  But,  as  it  was,  the  Persians  came  upon  them  by  surprise  and  so 
took  the  city.  Owing  to  the  vast  size  of  the  place,  the  inhabitants  of 
the  central  parts  (as  the  residents  at  Babylon  declare)  long  after  the 
outer  parts  of  the  town  were  taken  knew  nothing  of  what  had  chanced, 
but  as  they  were  engaged  in  a  festival,  continued  dancing  and  reveling 
until  they  learnt  the  capture  but  too  certainly.  Such,  then,  were  the 
circumstances  of  the  first  taking  of  Babylon. 

Herodotus  is  not  considered  to  be  of  the  highest  authority 
in  Babylonian  history.  His  statements  have  in  many  points 
to  be  corrected  by  comparison  of  the  native  historian,  Bero'- 
sus,  (extant  only  in  fragments,)  of  Scripture,  and  of  monu- 
mental   inscriptions    lately   discovered,   or   lately    first    de- 


3^  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

ciphered.  It  was  near  a  hundred  years  after  the  capture  of 
Babylon  by  Cyrus,  that  Herodotus  visiting  the  city  gathered 
his  information,  as  best  he  could,  chiefly  from  the  mouths  of 
the  people.  Our  readers  will  be  much  interested  in  collat- 
ing carefully  with  the  preceding  extract  the  scriptural  allu- 
sions, contained  in  Isaiah,  in  Jeremiah,  and  in  Daniel,  to  the 
taking  of  Babylon.  Nearly  two  centuries  before  the  event, 
Isaiah,  in  one  of  his  visions  of  prophecy,  had  foreseen  it  and 
exclaimed,  "  Babylon  is  fallen,  is  fallen  ;  and  all  the  graven 
images  of  her  gods  he  hath  broken  unto  the  ground."  More 
than  a  century  later  than  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  himself  forerun- 
ning fifty  years  or  more  the  capture  of  Babylon,  descends  to 
specification  minute  enough  to  be  very  hazardous  for  the 
repute  of  a  prophet.  The  points  of  coincidence  between 
Scripture,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  history  of  Herodotus 
commented  by  Berosus  and  by  archaeology,  on  the  other,  are 
striking.  They  receive  due  attention  in  notes  to  some  of 
the  learned  essays  accompanying  Mr.  Rawlinson's  translation 
of  our  author. 

But  we,  have  our  readers  forgotten  ">  were  on  our  way  to 
find  Croesus  again.  Croesus,  though,  as  we  are  left  to  sup- 
pose, personally  present  throughout,  does  not  by  name  ap- 
pear at  all  in  the  course  of  what  Herodotus  tells  us  of 
Babylon.  We  shall  have  to  go  forward  to  the  next  stage, 
and  the  last,  of  Cyrus's  progress  in  conquest,  before  Croesus 
re-enters  the  drama.  One  bit  of  traveler's  gossip  about  the 
customs  of  the  Babylonian  people  is  too  curious  not  to  be 
given  our  readers  by  the  way,  in  the  full  text  of  Herodotus : 

Of  their  customs,  whereof  I  shall  now  proceed  to  give  an  account, 
the  following  (which  I  understand  belongs  to  them  in  common  with  the 
lUyrian  tribe  of  the  En'e-ti)  is  the  wisest  in  my  judgment.  Once  a  year 
in  each  village,  the  maidens  of  age  to  marry  were  collected  all  together 
into  one  place  ;  while  the  men  stood  around  them  in  a  circle.  Then  a 
herald  called  up  the  damsels  one  by  one,  and  offered  them  for  sale. 
He  began  with  the  most  beautiful.  When  she  was  sold  for  no  small 
sum  of  money,  he  offered  for  sale  the  one  \vho  came  next  to  her  in 


Herodotus.  37 


beauty.  All  of  them  were  sold  to  be  wives.  The  richest  of  the  Baby- 
lonians who  wished  to  wed,  bid  against  each  other  for  the  loveliest 
maidens,  while  the  humbler  wife-seekers,  who  were  indifferent  about 
beauty,  took  the  more  homely  damsels  with  marriage-portions.  For  the 
custom  was,  that  when  the  herald  had  gone  through  the  whole  number  of 
the  beautiful  damsels,  he  should  then  call  up  the  ugliest — a  cripple,  if 
there  chanced  to  be  one — and  offer  her  to  the  men,  asking  who  would 
agree  to  take  her  with  the  smallest  marriage-portion.  And  the  man 
who  offered  to  take  the  smallest  sum  had  her  assigned  to  him.  The 
marriage-portions  were  furnished  by  the  money  paid  for  the  beautiful 
damsels,  and  thus  the  fairer  maidens  portioned  out  the  uglier.  No  one 
was  allowed  to  give  his  daughters  in  marriage  to  the  man  of  his  choice, 
nor  might  any  one  carry  away  the  damsel  whom  he  had  purchased 
without  finding  bail  really  and  truly  to  make  her  his  wife  ;  if,  however, 
it  turned  out  that  they  did  not  agree,  the  money  might  be  paid  back. 
All  who  liked  might  come  even  from  distant  villages  and  bid  for  the 
women.  This  was  the  best  of  all  their  customs,  but  it  has  now  fallen 
into  disuse. 

The  Mas-sag'e-t3e  —  whom  our  readers  had  better  not 
trouble  themselves  to  try  to  locate  very  definitely  on  the 
map  of  the  world — are  the  next  objects  of  Cyrus's  hostile 
ambition.  The  thing  about  them  at  present  interesting 
to  us  is,  that  they  were  ruled  over  by  a  queen  whose 
name  is  historic.  It  is  that  Tom'y-ris  to  whom  Tennyson, 
ranging  wide  for  all  pertinent  instance,  alludes  in  his 
"  Princess ;"  the  poet  provides,  as  an  architectural  decora- 
tion to  the  palace-college  of  the  ladies,  some 

Great  bronze  valves,  embossed  with  Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight. 

For,  indeed,  according  to  Herodotus,  Cyrus  fell  victim  at 
last  to  a  woman. '  The  queen  sent  to  threatening  Cyrus  a 
most  reasonable  message  of  expostulation  against  his  warlike 
aggression ;  proposing,  however,  that,  were  he  immovably 
bent  on  his  aim,  they  two  should  agree  upon  a  duel  of  their 
armies  to  be  fought  with  mutual  consent  as  to  terms.  She 
submitted  an  alternative.  Cyrus  might  choose:  Either  he 
should  march  unmolested  three  days*  journey  into  her  domin- 


38  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

ions  and  there  join  battle  with  her;  or,  she  would  make  a 
similar  advance  into  the  territory  of  Cyrus  and  engage  him 
on  his  own  ground.  Cyrus  considered,  and  he  had  now 
made  up  his  mind,  when  Croesus,  who  disapproved  of  the 
conqueror's  decision,  intervened  with  advice  as  follows : 

O,  my  king  !  I  promised  thee  long  since,  that,  as  Jove  had  given 
me  into  thy  hands,  I  would,  to  the  best  of  my  power,  avert  impending 
danger  from  thy  house.  Alas  !  my  own  sufferings,  by  their  very  bitter- 
ness, have  taught  me  to  be  keen-sighted  of  dangers.  If  thou  deemest 
thyself  an  immortal,  and  thine  army  an  array  of  immortals,  my  counsel 
will  doubtless  be  thrown  away  upon  thee.  But  if  thou  feelest  thyself  to 
be  a  man,  and  a  ruler  of  men,  lay  this  first  to  heart,  that  there  is  a 
wheel  on  which  the  affairs  of  men  revolve,  and  that  its  movement  for- 
bids the  same  man  to  be  always  fortunate.  Now  concerning  the  matter 
in  hand,  my  judgment  runs  counter  to  the  judgment  of  thy  other  coun- 
selors. For  if  thou  agreest  to  give  the  enemy  entrance  into  thy 
country,  consider  what  risk  is  run  I  Lose  the  battle,  and  therewith  thy 
whole  kingdom  is  lost.  For  assuredly,  the  Massagetae,  if  they  win  the 
fight,  will  not  return  to  their  homes,  but  will  push  forward  against  the 
states  of  thy  empire.  Or  if  thou  gainest  the  battle,  why,  then  thou 
gainest  far  less  than  if  thou  wert  across  the  stream,  where  thou  mightest 
follow  up  thy  victory.  For  against  thy  loss,  if  they  defeat  thee  on  thy 
own  ground,  must  be  set  theirs  in  like  case.  Rout  their  army  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  and  thou  mayest  push  at  once  into  the  heart  of 
their  country.  Moreover,  were  it  not  disgrace  intolerable  for  Cyrus,  the 
son  of  Cam-by'ses,  to  retire  before  and  yield  ground  to  a  woman  ?  My 
counsel  therefore  is,  that  we  cross  the  stream,  and,  pushing  forward  as 
far  as  they  shall  fall  back,  then  seek  to  get  the  better  of  them  by  strata- 
gem. I  am  told  they  are  unacquainted  with  the  good  things  on  which 
the  Persians  live,  and  have  never  tasted  the  great  delights  of  life.  Let 
us,  then,  prepare  a  feast  for  them  in  our  camp  ;  let  sheep  be  slaughtered 
without  stint,  and  the  wine-cups  be  filled  full  of  noble  liquor,  and  let  all 
manner  of  dishes  be  prepared  ;  then  leaving  behind  us  our  worst  troops, 
let  us  fall  back  toward  the  river.  Unless  I  very  much  mistake,  when 
they  see  the  good  fare  set  out,  they  will  forget  all  else  and  fall  to.  Then 
it  will  remain  for  us  to  do  our  part  manfully. 

Cyrus  reconsidered  and  adopted  the  counsel  of  Crcesus. 
Croesus,  however,  he  did  not  take  with  him  in  the  advance. 
Instead  of  this,  handing  his  royal  captive-guest  over  to  his 


Herodotus. 


39 


son  and  successor,  Cam-by'ses,  with  strict  charge  to  the  youth 
to  treat  the  Lydian  monarch  kindly,  even  should  the  expedi- 
tion issue  unfavorably,  he  sent  them  both  back  to  Persia. 
The  event  was  partly  as  Croesus  had  forecast.  A  son  of 
Tomyris,  leading  a  third  part  of  her  army,  came  up,  fell  on 
Cyrus's  guard  left  behind,  and  put  them  to  the  sword.  Cyrus 
returned  to  find  them  gorged  with  feast,  and  asleep.  He 
slew  and  captured  at  his  will.  Among  the  prisoners  was  the 
son  himself  of  Tomyris.     The  queen  sent  Cyrus  word,  '  Re- 


SUPPOSED  TOMB  OF  CYRUS. 

Store  my  son  and  go  unscathed.  Refuse,  and  I  swear  to  thee, 
bloodthirsty  as  thou  art,  I  will  give  thee  thy  fill  of  blood.' 
Poor  Spar-gap'i-thes,  the  son,  recovered  from  his  debauch,  at 
once  felt  the  extent  of  his  misfortune.  Getting  himself  re- 
leased from  his  fetters,  he  put  an  end  to  his  own  life.  Battle 
afterward  resulted  in  the  discomfiture  of  Cyrus.  The  con- 
queror himself  was  slain ;  but  vengeful  Tomyris  had  her 
satisfaction  •  of  his  corpse.     She  plunged    the  severed  head 


40  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

into  a  skin  filled  with  human  blood,  exclaiming,  *I  make 
good  my  threat  and  give  thee  thy  glut  of  gore.' 

Following,  thus  far,  with  some  discursions,  the  fortunes  of 
Croesus,  we  have  now  reached  the  end  of  the  first  book  of 
Herodotus.  Cambyses,  (conjectured  by  some  to  be  the 
Ahasuerus  of  the  Old  Testament,)  succeeding  to  the  Persian 
throne,  takes  up  his  father's  unfinished  career  of  conquest, 
in  various  enterprises  to  which  Herodotus  does  not  even 
allude.  The  first  enterprise  of  his  that  our  historian  men- 
tions is  his  invading  of  Egypt.  With  that  mention  for  pref- 
ace, Herodotus  devotes  his  second  book  entire  to  an  account 
of  Egypt,  the  land  and  the  people.  The  notes  and  essays 
that  accompany,  in  Mr.  Rawlinson's  volumes,  are  full  of 
learned  interest.  We  skip  to  the  third  book,  in  which  the 
history  proper  is  resumed,  and  in  which  our  hero  Croesus 
re-appears.  The  mad  pranks  of  absolute  power  that  Cam- 
byses played  at  the  cost  of  the  conquered  Egyptians, 
Herodotus  relates  in  a  considerable  number  of  instances. 
Cambyses,  the  historian  thinks,  must  have  been  out  of  his 
right  mind.  Out  of  his  right  mind  indeed  he  probably  was ; 
but  whether  otherwise  so  than  as  the  wine  of  boundless 
irresponsible  sway  tends  to  make  any  man  drinking  it  to  be, 
may  be  doubted.  The  despot's  wild  humors  took  incalcu- 
lable aims.  The  Egyptians  were  not  the  only  ones  to  suffer 
His  near  kindred  felt  the  tyrant's  fiercely  frolicsome  power — 
his  own  chosen  favorites  too  as  well.  Let  one  example  suf- 
fice.    Herodotus  says  : 

He  was  mad  also  upon  others  besides  his  kindred ;  among  the  rest, 
upon  Prex-as'pes,  the  man  whom  he  esteemed  beyond  all  the  rest  of  the 
Persians,  who  carried  his  messages,  and  whose  son  held  the  office — an 
honor  of  no  small  account  in  Persia — of  his  cup-bearer.  Him  Camby- 
ses is  said  to  have  once  addressed  as  follows :  "  What  sort  of  man, 
Prexaspes,  do  the  Persians  think  me  ?  What  do  they  say  of  me  ? " 
Prexaspes  answered,  "  O  sire,  they  praise  thee  greatly  in  all  things  but 
one — they  say  thou  art  too  much  given  to  love  of  wine."  Such  Prexas- 
pes told  him  was  the  judgment  of  the  Persians;  whereupon  Cambyses, 


Herodotus.  41 


full  of  rage,  made  answer,  "  What  ?  they  say  now  that  I  drink  too  much 
wine,  and  so  have  lost  my  senses,  and  am  gone  out  of  my  mind  !  Then 
their  former  speeches  about  me  were  untrue."  For  once,  when  the 
Persians  were  sitting  with  him,  and  Croesus  was  by,  he  had  asked  them, 
"What  sort  of  man  they  thought  him  compared  to  his  father  Cyrus?" 
Hereon  they  had  answered,  that  he  surpassed  his  father,  for  he  was 
lord  over  all  that  his  father  ever  ruled,  and  further  had  made  himself 
master  of  Egypt,  and  the  sea.  Then  Croesus,  who  was  standing  near, 
and  misliked  the  comparison,  spoke  thus  to  Cambyses  :  "In  my  judg- 
ment, O  son  of  Cyrus,  thou  art  not  equal  to  thy  father,  for  thou  hast 
not  yet  left  behind  thee  such  a  son  as  he."  Cambyses  was  delighted 
when  he  heard  this  reply,  and  praised  the  judgment  of  Croesus. 

Recollecting  these  answers,  Cambyses  spoke  fiercely  to  Prexaspes, 
saying,  "Judge  now  thyself,  Prexaspes,  whether  the  Persians  tell  the 
truth,  or  whether  it  is  not  they  who  are  mad  for  speaking  as  they  do. 
Look  there  now  at  thy  son  standing  in  the  vestibule.  If  I  shoot  and  hit 
him  right  in  the  middle  of  the  heart,  it  will  be  plain  the  Persians  have 
no  grounds  for  what  they  say.  If  I  miss  him,  then  I  allow  that  the  Per- 
sians are  right,  and  that  I  am  out  of  my  mind."  So  speaking,  he  drew 
his  bow  to  the  full,  and  struck  the  boy,  who  straightway  fell  down  dead. 
Then  Cambyses  ordered  the  body  to  be  opened,  and  the  wound  ex- 
amined ;  and  when  the  arrow  was  found  to  have  entered  the  heart,  the 
king  was  quite  overjoyed,  and  said  to  the  father  with  a  laugh,  "  Now 
thou  seest  plainly,  Prexaspes,  that  it  is  not  I  who  am  mad,  but  the  Per- 
sians who  have  lost  their  senses.  I  pray  thee  tell  me,  sawest  thou  ever  mor- 
tal man  send  an  arrow  with  a  better  aim?"  Prexaspes,  seeing  that  the 
king  was  not  in  his  right  mind,  and  fearing  for  himself,  replied,  "  O  my 
lord,  I  do  not  think  that  God  himself  could  shoot  so  dexterously." 
Such  was  the  outrage  which  Cambyses  committed  at  this  time  :  at 
another  he  took  twelve  of  the  noblest  Persians,  and,  without  bringing 
any  charge  worthy  of  death  against  them,  buried  them  all  up  to  the 
n^k. 

We  cannot  forbear  here  inserting  a  note,  subjoined  by  the 
translator  to  the  last  sentence  of  the  extract  preceding : 

"  This  mode  of  punishment  is  still  in  use  at  the  present 
day,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  'Tree-planting.'  Feti-Ali- 
Shah  once  sent  for  Astra-chan,  one  of  his  courtiers,  and  with 
an  appearance  of  great  friendliness  took  him  round  his  gar- 
den, showing  him  all  its  beauties.  When  he  had  finished 
the  circuit,  he  appealed   to  Astra-chan   to   know  what   his 


42  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

garden  still  lacked  ?  *  Nothing,'  said  the  courtier ;  '  it  is 
quite  perfect.'  *I  think  differently/  replied  the  king;  'I 
must  decidedly  plant  a  tree  in  it.'  Astra-chan,  who  knew 
the  king's  meaning  only  too  well,  fell  at  his  feet,  and  begged 
his  life ;  which  he  obtained  at  the  price  of  surrendering  to 
the  king  the  lady  to  whom  he  was  betrothed." 

Croesus  ventured  now  on  the  hazardous  part  of  "  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend  "  to  Cambyses.  Herodotus  reports 
his  admonition,  with  its  sequel,  as  follows  : 

"  O  king,  allow  not  thyself  to  give  way  entirely  to  thy  youth,  and 
the  heat  of  thy  temper,  but  check  and  control  thyself.  It  is  well  to  look 
to  consequences,  and  in  forethought  is  true  wisdom.  Thou  layest  hold  of 
men,  who  are  thy  fellow-citizens,  and  without  cause  of  complaint  slay- 
est  them  ;  thou  even  puttest  children  to  death  ;  bethink  thee  now,  if 
thou  shait  often  do  things  like  these,  will  not  the  Persians  rise  in  revolt 
against  thee  ?  It  is  by  thy  father's  wish  that  I  offer  thee  advice  ;  he 
charged  me  strictly  to  give  thee  such  counsel  as  I  might  see  to  be  most 
for  thy  good."  In  thus  advising  Cambyses,  Croesus  meant  nothing  but 
what  was  friendly.  But  Cambyses  answered  him,  "  Dost  thou  presume 
to  offer  me  advice  ?  Right  well  thou  ruledst  thy  own  countiy  when  thou 
wast  a  king,  and  right  sage  advice  thou  gavest  my  father,  Cyrus,  bidding 
him  cross  the  Araxes  and  fight  the  Massagetae  in  their  own  land,  when 
they  were  willing  to  have  passed  over  into  ours.  By  thy  misdirection 
of  thine  own  affairs  thou  broughtest  ruin  upon  thyself,  and  by  thy  bad 
counsel,  which  he  followed,  thou  broughtest  ruin  upon  Cyrus,  my  father. 
But  thou  shalt  not  escape  punishment  now,  for  I  have  long  been  seeking 
to  find  some  occasion  against  thee."  Ashe  thus  spoke,  Cambyses  took  up 
his  bow  to  shoot  at  Croesus  ;  but  Croesus  ran  hastily  out,  and  escaped. 
So  when  Qambyses  found  that  he  could  not  kill  him  with  his  bow,  he 
bade  his  servants  seize  him,  and  put  him  to  death.  The  servants,  how- 
ever, who  knew  their  master's  humor,  thought  it  best  to  hide  Croesus  ; 
that  so,  if  Cambyses  relented,  and  asked  for  him,  they  might  bring  him 
out,  and  get  a  reward  for  having  saved  his  life  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  did  not  relent,  or  regret  the  loss,  they  might  then  dispatch  him. 
Not  long  afterward  Cambyses  did  in  fact  regret  the  loss  of  Croesus,  and 
the  servants,  perceiving  it,  let  him  know  that  he  was  still  alive.  "I  am 
glad,"  said  he,  "  that  Croesus  lives,  but  as  for  you  who  saved  him,  ye 
shall  not  escape  my  vengeance,  but  shall  all  of  you  be  put  to  death." 
And  he  did  even  as  he  had  said. 


Herodotus,  43 


Herodotus  everywhere  shows  his  pious  turn  of  mind.  He 
is  apparently  disposed  to  account  for  the  mental  disorders 
under  which  he  thinks  Cambyses  undoubtedly  suffered,  by 
regarding  them  as  a  punishment  inflicted  on  the  tyrant  for 
his  acts  of  impiety  toward  the  Egyptian  gods.  This  explana- 
tory suggestion,  however,  Herodotus — who  knows  but  humor- 
ously ? — accompanies  with  a  wisely  wide  alternative  :  The  in- 
sanity of  Cambyses  arose,  "  either,"  he  says,  "  from  his  usage 
of  Apis,  or  from  some  other  among  the  many  causes  from 
which  calamities  are  wont  to  arise." 

With  the  foregoing  paternal  admonition  delivered  to  Cam- 
byses, Croesus  disappears  from  the  history  of  Herodotus. 
The  historian — romancer,  were  it  better  in  this  connection  to 
call  him  .? — forgets  to  give  us  any  notice  of  the  Lydian's  end. 

Croesus  was  no  doubt  a  real  personage,  the  outlines  of 
whose  history  we  may  trust  to  have  been  truly  supplied  by 
Herodotus.  But  the  details,  it  is  likely,  are  in  large  part  a 
gradual  accretion  of  myth.  During  successive  generations, 
the  fancy  of  the  ancients  had  Croesus  for  a  favorite  figure 
on  which  to  exercise  itself.  That  fancy  never  tired  of  adorn- 
ing his  legend  either  with  new  figments  or  new  pigments  of 
romance.  The  form  in  which  the  legend  descends  to  us 
from  the  hands  of  Herodotus  is  by  no  means  the  one  most 
elaborately  decorated.  But  that  form  has  been  selected  by 
the  consent  of  mankind  as  the  one  worthiest  to  be  immortal. 
Croesus,  as  we  have  already  remarked,  was  to  our  author  a 
capital  illustration  of  his  chosen  philosophy  of  human  life. 
Great  good  fortune  followed  by  ill  fortune  as  great,  made  a 
spectacle  that  had  irresistible  fascination  for  Herodotus.  We 
go  on  now  to  another  of  his  illustrious  historic  examples,  in 
Xerxes,  crossing  thus  an  interval  of  about  fifty  years.  Cam- 
byses died  522  B.  C.     Xerxes  began  to  reign  485  B.  C. 

The  invasion  of  Greece  by  Xerxes  is  a  feature  of  ancient 
story  that  every  one  knows  of  almost  immemorial  knowledge. 
We  shall  not  repeat  it  here  out  of  Herodotus.     How  Xerxes 


44  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

spent  years  in  preparation,  how  he  got  together  an  arma- 
ment on  land  and  on  sea  exceeding,  in  number  of  men 
and  in  amount  of  warlike  equipment,  any  thing  before 
or  since  known,  how,  his  heart  distended  with  pride,  he 
sat  to  behold  his  vast  array,  how  he  scourged  the  strait 
that  in  storm  broke  up  his  bridge,  how,  at  length,  checked  at 
Thermopylae,  defeated  at  Salamis,  he  was  forced  to  withdraw, 
his  main  object  unaccomplished — all  this  is  a  tale  that  the 
world  has  by  heart.  Our  plan  will  be  to  select,  from  the 
full  store  supplied  by  Herodotus,  a  few  salient  anecdotes  of 
the  war  and  set  these  before  our  readers.  We  shall  aim  to 
make  our  selection  serve  not  only  to  show  the  matter  and 
method  of  Herodotus,  but  to  illustrate  the  characters  of  two 
men  in  particular,  brought  into  the  strong  light  of  mutual 
contrast  by  the  struggle.  They  will  be  two  men  who  may 
justly  be  taken  to  represent  respectively  the  two  races  to 
which  respectively  they  belong.  We  mean  Xerxes  for  the 
Persians,  and  The-mis'to-cles  for  the  Greeks. 

Here,  to  begin  with,  is  a  recital  luridly  exhibiting  the 
violent  contrast  of  gracious  with  vindictive,  that  may  exist  in 
one  human  breast,  nay,  that  perhaps  is  naturally  engendered 
in  any  human  breast  born  to  the  immeasurable  misfortune  of 
the  possession  of  arbitrary  power.  Xerxes,  with  his  host 
numbering  already  more  than  a  million  of  men,  is  at  Ce-lae'- 
nae  in  Phrygia.     Herodotus: 

Now  there  lived  in  this  city  a  certain  Pyth'ius,  the  son  of  A'tys,  a 
Lydian.  This  man  entertained  Xerxes  and  his  whole  army  in  a  most 
magnificent  fashion,  offering  at  the  same  time  to  give  him  a  sum  of 
money  for  the  war.  Xerxes,  upon  the  mention  of  money,  turned  to  the 
Persians  who  stood  by,  and  asked  of  them,  "  Who  is  this  Pythius, 
and  what  wealth  has  he  that  he  should  venture  on  such  an  offer  as 
this?'*  They  answered  him,  "This  is  the  man,  O  king,  who  gave 
thy  father,  Darius,  the  golden  plane-tree,  and  likewise  the  golden  vine  ; 
and  he  is  still  the  wealthiest  man  we  know  of  in  all  the  world,  excepting 
thee." 

Xerxes  marveled  at  these  last  words,   and  now  addressing  Pythius 


Herodotus.  45 


with  his  own  lips,  he  asked  him,  what  the  amount  of  his  wealth  really 
was.     Pythius  answered  as  follows  : 

"  O  king,  I  will  not  hide  this  matter  from  thee,  nor  make  pretense 
that  I  do  not  know  how  rich  I  am  ;  but  as  I  know  perfectly,  I  will  de- 
clare all  fully  before  thee.  For  when  thy  journey  was  noised  abroad, 
and  I  heard  thou  wert  coming  down  to  the  Grecian  coast,  straightway, 
as  I  wished  to  give  thee  a  sum  of  money  for  the  war,  I  made  count  of 
my  stores,  and  found  them  to  be  two  thousand  talents  of  silver,  and  of 
gold  four  millions  of  Daric  staters,  wanting  seven  thousand.  All  this  I 
willingly  make  over  to  thee  as  a  gift  ;  and  when  it  is  gone,  my  slaves 
and  my  estates  in  land  will  be  wealth  enough  for  my  wants." 

This  speech  charmed  Xerxes  and  he  replied  :  "  Dear  Lydian,  since  I 
left  Persia,  there  is  no  man  but  thou  who  has  either  desired  to  entertain 
my  army,  or  come  forward  of  his  own  free  will  to  offer  me  a  sum  of 
money  for  the  war.  Thou  hast  done  both  the  one  and  the  other,  feast- 
ing my  troops  magnificently,  and  now  making  offer  of  a  right  noble  sum. 
In  return,  this  is  what  I  will  bestow  on  thee.  Thou  shalt  be  my  sworn 
friend  from  this  day  ;  and  the  seven  thousand  staters  which  are  wanting 
to  make  up  thy  four  millions  I  will  supply,  so  that  the  full  tale  may  be 
no  longer  lacking,  and  that  thou  mayest  owe  the  completion  of  the  round 
sum  to  me.  Continue  to  enjoy  all  that  thou  hast  acquired  hitherto,  and 
be  sure  to  remain  ever  such  as  thou  now  art.  If  thou  dost,  thou  wilt 
not  repent  of  it  so  long  as  thy  life  endures." 

When  Xerxes  had  so  spoken  and  had  made  good  his  promises  to 
Pythius,  he  pressed  forward  upon  his  march. 

So  much  for  the  bountiful  grace  of  the  king.  Thus  far  the 
story  reads  almost  as  if  it  might  have  been  told — this  parallel 
often  recurs  to  mind — of  Louis  XIV.  of  France.  But  there 
is  a  sequel.  After  various  fortune  experienced  in  the  matter 
of  preparing  to  cross  the  Hellespont,  the  army  at  length  was 
about  to  move,  when  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  occurred — so 
Herodotus  relates;  but  the  astronomers  say  that  Herodotus 
is  wrong,  that  no  such  eclipse  occurred  that  year.  However 
this  may  be,  here  is  the  other  side  of  Pythius's  relation  to 
Xerxes.     Herodotus  says : 

The  army  had  begun  its  march,  when  Pythius,  the  Lydian,  affrighted 
at  the  heavenly  portent,  and  emboldened  by  his  gifts,  came  to  Xerxes 
and  said,  "Grant  me,  O  my  lord,  a  favor  which  is  to  thee  a  light 
matter,  but  to  me  of  vast    account"      Then  Xerxes,  who   looked  for 


46  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

nothing  less  than  such  a  prayer  as  Pythius  in  fact  preferred,  engaged  to 
grant  him  whatever  he  wished,  and  commanded  him  to  tell  his  wish 
freely.     So  Pythius,  full  of  boldness,  went  on  to  say  : 

"  O  my  lord,  thy  servant  has  five  sons,  and  it  chances  that  all  are  called 
upon  to  join  thee  in  this  march  against  Greece.  I  beseech  thee,  have 
compassion  upon  my  years,  and  let  one  of  my  sons,  the  eldest,  remain 
behind,  to  be  my  prop  and  stay,  and  the  guardian  of  my  wealth.  Take 
with  thee  the  other  four:  and  when  thou  hast  done  all  that  is  in  thy 
heart,  mayst  thou  come  back  in  safety." 

But  Xerxes  was  greatly  angered,  and  replied  to  him :  "  Thou  wretch  ! 
darest  thou  speak  to  me  of  thy  son,  when  I  am  myself  on  the  march 
against  Greece,  with  sons,  and  brothers,  and  kinsfolk,  and  friends  ?  Thou 
who  art  my  bond-slave,  and  art  in  duty  bound  to  follow  me  with  all  thy 
household,  not  excepting  thy  wife  !  Know  that  man's  spirit  dwelleth 
in  his  ears,  and  when  it  hears  good  things,  straightway  it  fills  all  his 
body  with  delight  ;  but  no  sooner  does  it  hear  the  contrary  than  it 
heaves  and  swells  with  passion.  As  when  thou  didst  good  deeds  and 
madest  good  offers  to  me,  thou  wert  not  able  to  boast  of  having  outdone 
the  king  in  bountifulness  ;  so  now  when  thou  art  changed  and  grown 
impudent,  thou  shalt  not  receive  all  thy  deserts,  but  less.  For  thyself 
and  four  of  thy  five  sons,  the  entertainment  which  I  had  of  thee  shall 
gain  protection  ;  but  as  for  him  to  whom  thou  clingest  above  the  rest, 
the  forfeit  of  his  life  shall  be  thy  punishment."  Having  thus  spoken, 
forthwith  he  commanded  those  to  whom  such  tasks  were  assigned,  to 
seek  out  the  eldest  of  the  sons  of  Pythius,  and  having  cut  his  body 
asunder,  to  place  the  two  halves,  one  on  the  right  and  the  other  on  the 
left  of  the  great  road,  so  that  the  army  might  march  out  between  them. 
Then  the  king's  orders  were  obeyed ;  and  the  army  marched  out  be- 
tween the  two  halves  of  the  carcase. 

Arrived  at  A-by'dos,  Xerxes  is  struck  with  a  very  natural 
desire.  To  desire  and  to  be  gratified  is,  for  Xerxes,  one  and 
the  same.     Herodotus  relates  : 

Arrived  here,  Xerxes  wished  to  look  upon  all  his  host ;  so,  as  there 
was  a  throne  of  white  marble  upon  a  hill  near  the  city,  which  they  of 
Abydos  had  prepared  beforehand,  by  the  king's  bidding,  for  his  especial 
use,  Xerxes  took  his  seat  on  it,  and,  gazing  thence  upon  the  shore  be- 
low, beheld  at  one  view  all  his  land  forces  and  all  his  ships.  While 
thus  employed  he  felt  a  desire  to  behold  a  sailing-match  among  his 
ships,  which  accordingly  took  place,  and  was  won  by  the  Phoenicians  of 


Herodotus.  47 


Sidon,  much  to  the  joy  of  Xerxes,  who  was  delighted  alike  with  the  race 
and  with  his  army. 

And  now,  as  he  looked  and  saw  the  whole  Hellespont  covered  with 
the  vessels  of  his  fleet,  and  all  the  shore  and  every  plain  about  Abydos 
as  full  as  could  be  of  men,  Xerxes  congratulated  himself  on  his  good 
fortune  ;  but  after  a  little  while  he  wept. 

There  was  a  good  uncle  of  Xerxes  in  the  host,  Ar-ta-ba'- 
nus  by  name.  Artabanus,  hearing  that  his  nephew  the  king 
was  in  tears,  went  to  him.  The  two  entered  into  an  exchange 
of  sentiment  such  as  shows  how  little  the  human  heart, 
whether  in  breast  of  high  or  of  low,  changes  from  generation 
to  generation.  The  pessimists  of  our  time  may  recognize 
the  antiquity  of  their  own  comfortless  view  of  human  life. 
Herodotus  reports  Xerxes  as  speaking,  and  Artabanus  reply- 
ing, thus : 

"  There  came  upon  me  a  sudden  pity  when  I  thought  of  the  shortness 
of  man's  life,  and  considered  that  of  all  this  host,  so  numerous  as  it  is,  not 
one  will  be  alive  when  a  hundred  years  are  gone  by." 

"  And  yet  there  are  sadder  things  in  life  than  that,"  returned  the 
other.  "  Short  as  our  time  is,  there  is  no  man,  whether  it  be  here  among 
this  multitude  or  elsewhere,  who  is  so  happy  as  not  to  have  felt  the 
wish — I  will  not  say  once,  but  full  many  a  time — that  he  were  dead 
rather  than  alive.  Calamities  fall  upon  us,  sicknesses  vex  and  harass  us, 
and  make  life,  short  though  it  be,  to  appear  long.  So  death,  through 
the  wretchedness  of  our  life,  is  a  most  sweet  refuge  to  our  race  ;  and 
God,  who  gives  us  the  tastes  that  we  enjoy  of  pleasant  times,  is  seen,  in 
his  very  gift,  to  be  envious." 

With  much  still  before  us  in  the  text  that  almost  irresisti- 
bly entices,  we  hei;e  stay  our  hand  from  what  might  further 
illustrate  the  character  of  Xerxes.  Go  we  now,  shutting  our 
else  too-much-persuaded  eyes,  and  hardening  our  heart?, 
forward  through  these  bewitching  fields  of  anecdotal  bloom, 
to  the  name  of  Themistocles.  Every  body  knows  the  shifty, 
irrepressible,  audacious,  unscrupulous  genius  of  this  Greek 
of  the  Greeks.  Every  body  knows  how  necessary  a  part  he 
played  in  the  great  drama  of  the  Greek  repulse  of  the  Per- 


48 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


sians.  We  simply  now  give  some  anecdotes  of  the  man,  in 
the  fresh,  fragrant  text  of  Herodotus — composition  immor- 
tally renewed  in  its  charm,  and  like 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  mom. 

The  Greek  allied  fleet  were  on  the  point  of  withdrawing 
before  the  Persians  and  leaving  the 
Euboeans  exposed  to  destruction. 
With  Eu- ry-bi'a-des,  Lacedaemonian 
commander-in-chief,  the  Euboeans  in 
suppliance  prevailing  nothing,  they 
went  to  a  man  more  open  to  negoti- 
ations.    Now  Herodotus : 


They  went  to  Themistocles,  the  Athenian 
commander,  to  whom  they  gave  a  bribe  of 
thirty  talents,  on  his  promise  that  the  fleet 
should  remain  and  risk  a  battle  in  defense 
of  Eubcea. 

And  Themistocles  succeeded  in  detain- 
ing the  fleet  in  the  way  which  I  will  now 
relate.     He  made  over  to  Eurybiades  five 
talents  out  of  the  thirty  paid  him,  which  he 
THEMISTOCLES.  gave  as  if  they  came  from  himself :  and  hav- 

ing in  this  way  gained  over  the  admiral,  he  addressed  himself  to  Adei- 
mantus,  the  son  of  Ocyus,  the  Corinthian  leader,  who  was  the  only  re- 
monstrant now,  and  who  still  threatened  to  sail  away  from  Artemisium 
and  not  wait  for  the  other  captains.  Addressing  himself  to  this  man, 
Themistocles  said  with  an  oath,  "  Thou  forsake  us?  By  no  means  !  I 
will  pay  thee  better  for  remaining  than  the  Mede  would  for  leaving  thy 
friends  " — and  straightway  he  sent  on  board  the  ship  of  Adeimantus  a 
present  of  three  talents  of  silver.  So  these  two  captains  were  won  by  gifts, 
and  came  over  to  the  views  of  Themistocles,  who  was  thereby  enabled 
to  gratify  the  wishes  of  the  Euboeans.  He  likewise  made  his  own  gain 
on  the  occasion  ;  for  he  kept  the  rest  of  the  money,  and  no  one  knew  of 
it.  The  commanders  who  took  the  gifts  thought  that  the  sums  were  fur- 
nished by  Athens,  and  had  been  sent  to  be  used  in  this  way. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Greeks  stayed  at  Eubcea  and  there  gave 
battle  to  the  enemy. 


Herodotus.  49 


Here  is  the  device  of  Themistocles  for  detaching  the  sub- 
ject Ionian  Greeks  from  the  interest  of  Xerxes.  It  reads 
like  a  larger  contrivance  of  0-dys'seus.  In  truth  Themistocles 
might  be  a  study  in  real  life  from  the  Odysseus  of  Homer's 
romance.     Herodotus : 

Themistocles  chose  out  the  swiftest  sailers  from  among  the  Athenian 
vessels,  and,  proceeding  to  the  various  watering-places  along  the  coast, 
cut  inscriptions  on  the  rocks,  which  were  read  by  the  lonians  the  day 
following,  on  their  arrival  at  Artemisium.  The  inscriptions  ran  thus: 
*'  Men  of  Ionia,  ye  do  wrong  to  fight  against  your  own  fathers  and  to  give 
your  help  to  enslave  Greece.  We  beseech  you,  therefore,  to  come  over,  if 
possible,  to  our  side :  if  you  cannot  do  this,  then,  we  pray  you,  stand 
aloof  from  the  contest  yourselves,  and  persuade  the  Carians  to  do  the 
like.  If  neither  of  these  things  be  possible,  and  you  are  hindered,  by  a 
force  too  strong  to  resist,  from  venturing  upon  desertion,  at  least  when 
we  come  to  blows,  fight  backwardly,  remembering  that  you  are  sprung 
from  us,  and  that  it  was  through  you  we  first  provoked  the  hatred  of  the 
barbarians."  Themistocles,  in  putting  up  these  inscriptions,  looked,  I 
believe,  to  two  chances — either  Xerxes  would  not  discover  them,  in 
which  case  they  might  bring  over  the  lonians  to  the  side  of  the  Greeks  ; 
or  they  would  be  reported  to  him  and  made  a  ground  of  accusation 
against  the  lonians,  who  would  thereupon  be  distrusted,  and  would  not 
be  allowed  to  take  part  in  the  sea-fights. 

When  the  time  came  for  finally  deciding  where  the 
Grecian  fleet  should  make  its  stand  against  the  Persians, 
Themistocles  took  infinite  trouble  to  secure  a  vote  in  favor 
of  Salamis.  Finding,  to  his  disgust,  that  the  majority  at  last 
were  going  against  him,  he  took  a  bold  step.  Let  Herodotus 
tell  what  it  was : 

He  went  out  secretly  from  the  council,  and  instructing  a  certain  man 
what  he  should  say,  sent  him  on  board  a  merchant  ship  to  the  fleet  of 
the  Medes.  The  man's  name  was  Sicinnus  ;  he  was  one  of  Themisto- 
cles* household  slaves,  and  acted  as  tutor  to  his  sons  ;  in  after  times, 
when  the  Thespians  were  admitting  persons  to  citizenship,  Themistocles 
made  him  a  Thespian,  and  a  rich  man  to  boot.  The  ship  brought 
Sicinnus  to  the  Persian  fleet,  and  there  he  delivered  his  message  to  the 
leaders  in  these  words :  "  The  Athenian  commander  has  sent  me  to 
you  privily,  without  the  knowledge  of  the  other  Greeks.  He  is  a  well- 
3 


50  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

wisher  to  the  king's  cause,  and  would  rather  success  should  attend  on 
you  than  on  his  countrymen  ;  wherefore  he  bids  me  tell  you,  that  fear 
has  seized  the  Greeks  and  they  are  meditating  a  hasty  flight.  Now  then 
it  is  open  to  you  to  achieve  the  best  work  that  ever  ye  wrought,  if  only 
ye  will  hinder  their  escaping.  They  no  longer  agree  among  themselves, 
so  that  they  will  not  now  make  any  resistance — nay,  'tis  likely  ye  may 
see  a  fight  already  begun  between  such  as  favour  and  such  as  oppose 
your  cause."  The  messenger,  when  he  had  thus  expressed  himself, 
departed  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  risk  assumed  by  Themistocles  was  not,  we  are  war- 
ranted in  supposing,  necessarily  all  of  it  dictated  by  patri- 
otic self-sacrifice  on  his  part.  It  would  be  quite  like  The- 
mistocles, in  so  momentous  a  crisis  of  his  own  personal  fort- 
une, to  have  kept  a  thrifty  eye  to  alternative  chances. 
Xerxes  might  win ;  and  if  so,  Themistocles,  by  this  informa- 
tion sent  in  advance  to  the  conqueror,  would  establish  a  claim 
to  favorable  consideration  from  the  sovereign  of  the  world. 
There  was  no  bottom  to  the  abyss  of  the  sagacity  of  Themis- 
tocles— of  his  sagacity,  and,  if  Herodotus  is  to  be  trusted,  we 
might  almost  add  of  his  unscrupulousness  too.  Herodotus 
says  that,  later,  when  after  the  Persian  defeat  there  was  talk 
of  the  Athenians'  sailing  to  the  Hellespont  and  there  break- 
ing the  bridges  by  which  Xerxes  would  retreat,  he  dissuaded 
his  countrymen  from  the  plan — in  the  hope  of  so  gaining 
favor  with  the  Persian  king.  Herodotus  reports  as  follows  a 
message  sent  on  this  subsequent  occasion  by  Themistocles  to 
Xerxes : 

"  Themistocles  the  Athenian,  anxious  to  render  thee  a  service,  has 
restrained  the  Greeks,,  who  were  impatient  to  pursue  thy  ships,  and  to 
break  up  the  bridges  at  the  Hellespont.  Now,  therefore,  return  home 
at  thy  leisure. " 

With  one  paragraph  more,  from  these  fascinating  pages, 
concerning  Themistocles,  we  bring  our  presentation  of 
Herodotus  abruptly  to  a  close.  Themistocles  himself,  how- 
ever, is  not  to  disappear  from  our  view  along  with  Herodotus. 


Herodotus.  5 1 


He  will  come  before  us  again  for  a  little  in  our  next  chapter, 
that  entitled  "  Thucydides." 

The  greed  of  Themistocles  was  as  great  as  his  gen- 
ius. Commencing  his  shameless  levies  with  the  Andrians, 
he  used  his  power  to  enforce  a  general  scheme  of  spoliation 
for  his  own  aggrandizement  on  the  exposed  and  helpless 
isles  of  Greece.  It  is  melancholy  that  Herodotus  should 
be,  as  probably  he  was,  justified  in  the  heavy  indictment 
brought  against  this  great  representative  Greek  in  the  fol- 
lowing words : 

Meanwhile  Themistocles,  who  never  ceased  his  pursuit  of  gain,  sent 
threatening  messages  to  the  other  islanders  with  demands  for  different 
sums,  employing  the  same  messengers  and  the  same  words  as  he  had 
used  toward  the  Andrians.  "  If,"  he  said,  "  they  did  not  send  him  the 
amount  required,  he  would  bring  the  Greek  fleet  upon  them,  and  besiege 
them  till  he  took  their  cities."  By  these  means  he  collected  large  sums 
from  the  Carystians  and  the  Parians,  who,  when  they  heard  that  Andros 
was  already  besieged,  and  that  Themistocles  was  the  best  esteemed  of 
all  the  captains,  sent  the  money  through  fear.  Whether  any  of  the  other 
islanders  did  the  like,  I  cannot  say  for  certain  ;  but  I  think  some  did 
besides  those  I  have  mentioned.  However,  the  Carystians,  though  they 
complied,  were  not  spared  any  the  more  ;  but  Themistocles  was  softened 
by  the  Parians'  gift,  and  therefore  they  received  no  visit  from  the  army. 
In  this  way  it  was  Themistocles,  during  his  stay  at  Andros,  obtained 
money  from  the  islanders,  unbeknown  to  the  other  captains. 

If  now  the  foregoing  presentation  of  this  historical 
work  shall  have  made  on  our  readers  the  impression  of 
a  very  discursive  writer  in  Herodotus,  we  can  only  say 
that  such  impression  is  quite  in  accordance  with  fact. 
If,  however,  the  impression  shall  also  have  been  made 
that  Herodotus  worked  on  no  plan  and  that  he  gave  no 
unity  to  his  composition,  that  impression  is  very  wide  of 
the  truth.  Digressions  there  undoubtedly  are — and  some 
digressions  that  might,  perhaps,  better  have  been  spared — 
but  from  every  digression  there  is  always  return  to  the 
main   road,    the    great    highway,   of    design   that    stretches 


52  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

from  goal  to  goal  of  this  well-conceived  and  well-executed 
history. 

Herodotus  was,  like  nearly  every  writer  of  the  first  class 
in  every  literature,  a  man  of  comparatively  high  moral 
tone.  Comparatively,  we  say,  -and  this  qualification  is 
necessary.  For  there  are  stories  told  by  Herodotus  which 
it  would  not  do  for  us  to  repeat  in  these  pages.  But 
the  fault  in  taste  and  in  ethical  standard  is  the  fault,  not 
of  the  man,  but  of  his  age  and  of  heathenism.  The  total 
efi"ect  of  the  history — and  this  is  the  individual  praise  of 
Herodotus — makes  for,  rather  than  against,  good  morals. 
The  fluent  garrulity  of  the  historian,  his  evident  willingness 
to  gratify  popular  appetite,  perhaps  we  should  say,  rather, 
his  own  frankly  genuine  sympathy  with  popular  appetite, 
make  his  pages  a  marvelously  perfect  mirror  to  reflect  for 
all  generations  the  features  and  the  lineaments  of  the  age  and 
the  race  to  which  he  belonged.  The  literary  image  thus 
immortally  preserved  we  prize  and  prize  highly;  but  as  for 
the  original  of  the  image,  the  reality  itself,  that  did  not  perish 
too  soon. 


III. 
THUCYDIDES. 


Thucydides  is  not  so  entertaining  an  historian  as  Herod- 
otus. This  is  due  partly  to  the  nature  of  his  subject ;  but 
partly  it  is  due  to  the  nature  of  the  man.  Indeed,  since  it 
was  mainly  the  nature  of  the  man  that  prescribed  his  choice 
of  a  subject,  it  may  fairly  be  said  that  the  diff'erence,  existing 
against  Thucydides  as  compared  with  Herodotus,  in  point 
of  entertainingness,  is  chiefly  attributable  to  the  less  engag- 
ing personal  quality  of  the  author  himself. 

What  Thucydides  describes  is  the  so-called  Pel-o-pon-ne'- 
sian   war.     This  is  the  name  given  to  a  conflict,  continued 


Thucydides.  53 


with  little  interruption  during  twenty-seven  years,  between 
Sparta  (chief  Peloponnesian  power)  with  her  allies,  on  the 
one  side,  and  Athens  with  her  al- 
lies, on  the  other.  The  conflict  was 
confined  almost  exclusively  to  the 
states  and  colonies  of  Greece.  It 
partook  strongly  of  the  character 
of  a  civil  war.  The  prize  con- 
tended for  was  leadership  in  Hel- 
lenic affairs.  Sparta  envied  Athens 
her  empire.  Or,  to  put  the  matter 
from  the  other  point  of  view,  Athens 
threatened  the  independence  of 
Sparta  and  of  Hellas.     The  result  thucydides. 

of  this  mutual  jealousy  was  that,  continuously,  for  the  space 
of  almost  a  whole  human  generation,  the  states  of  Greece 
devoted  themselves  energetically  to  the  business  of  destroy- 
ing one  another.  Energetically,  but  not  exclusively ;  for 
Athens,  meantime — and  this  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  history 
— warring,  as  it  were,  with  her  left  hand,  carried  forward, 
with  her  right,  those  matchless  achievements  of  hers,  in 
letters  and  in  arts,  which  have  made  her  name  the  immortal 
synonym  and  symbol  of  genius,  of  culture,  and  of  taste.  It 
is  beyond  measure  astonishing  that,  embroiled  in  internecine 
war  at  home,  embarked  in  arduous  naval  expeditions  abroad, 
suffering,  almost  to  decimation,  within  her  own  city  walls 
from  a  plague  unsurpassed  for  virulence,  this  incomparably 
spirited  little  municipality,  probably  not  at  her  height  of 
prosperity  numbering  more  than  about  twenty  thousand  free 
citizens,  (representing  a  total  population  of,  say,  five  hundred 
thousand  souls,)  should,  at  this  very  same  moment  of  her 
history,  have  been  living  a  life  of  the  intellect  flowering  into 
such  products  as  Socrates,  Plato,  Xenophon,  Sophocles,  Aris- 
tophanes, Thucydides. 

For  Thucydides  wrote  of  his  own  times  in  his  history.    Of 


54  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

his  own  times,  but,  alas  !  of  his  own  times,  in  only  one  aspect 
of  those  times,  the  aspect  of  war.  Immensely  is  this  to  be 
regretted.  No  account  whatever,  scarcely  even  a  hint,  from 
that  master  hand,  of  the  double  life  that  Athens  lived  during 
all  those  troubled  days !  You  would  scarcely  guess  from 
Thucydides,  that,  besides  her  remarkable  activity  in  war, 
Athens  was  maintaining  meantime  a  parallel  activity  more 
remarkable  still  that  was  not  of  war,  in  the  production 
of  such  works  in  literature  and  in  art  as,  generally  and  justly, 
are  assumed  to  be  sufficiently  described  when  they  are  simply 
described  as  works  of  peace.  The  masterpieces  of  poetry,  of 
sculpture,  and  of  architecture,  which  were  the  fruit  of  those 
years — what  enhanced  interest  they  acquire  in  your  eyes 
when  you  remember  that  Athens  achieved  them  during  the 
protracted  agony  of  a  war  destined  to  issue  in  disaster  to 
herself  almost  equivalent  to  her  own  destruction  !  Conceive 
the  pleasure  with  which,  amid  the  annals  of  battle  or  of 
plague,  we  should  have  read,  in  the  assured  and  graphic 
delineation  of  Thucydides,  episodes  of  information  about  the 
literary  and  artistic  life  of  Athens — episodes  decorated,  as 
he  could  have  decorated  them,  with  illustrious  contemporary 
names !  How  such  diversifications  would  have  relieved  and 
illuminated  the  sombre  monotony  of  his  history ! 

But  Thucydides  did  not  know  that  he  was  writing  also  for  us 
— perhaps,  had  he  known,  would  not  have  cared  for  our  wish- 
es. He  was  intensely  and  narrowly  Greek.  There  was  for  him 
no  world  outside  of  Hellas.  The  Ionian  birth  and  breeding, 
perhaps  it  was,  of  Herodotus,  that  gave  this  different  genius 
a  more  cosmopolitan  breadth  of  sympathy  than  belonged  to 
Thucydides.  Thucydides  thought  that  never  in  the  world 
had  there  been  a  war  so  great  as  promised  in  its  imminency 
to  be  the  Peloponnesian  war.  At  the  very  outset,  therefore, 
of  the  struggle  he  began  to  take  notes  in  preparation  for  his 
history.  One  is  glad  that  Thucydides  estimated,  as  he  did, 
the  magnitude  of  his  theme,  since  otherwise  it  seems  likely 


Thucydidcs.  55 


we  should  not  have  had  the  present  work.  But  the  actual 
fact  is  that  there  has  rarely  a  war  occurred  and  been  made 
the  subject  of  serious  historical  report,  that  to  the  world  at 
large  was  of  less  moment  than  the  Peloponnesian  war. 
Simply  a  quarrel  in  the  Hellenic  family,  it  was  costly,  dis- 
graceful, disastrous — to  them — but  to  mankind  in  general  of 
scarcely  the  smallest  direct  concern.  The  history  of  Thucyd- 
ides  accordingly  is  not  important  as  history;  but,  first,  as 
literature,  and,  secondly,  as  fund  of  illustration  for  the  Greek 
national  genius,  it  is  of  the  very  highest  importance.  The 
work  being  in  its  character  such  as  has  now  been  indicated, 
evidently  we  are  released  from  any  necessity  of  giving  a  con- 
scientious abstract  and  condensation  in  full  of  its  contents. 
It  is  composed  in  the  form  of  annals,  that  is,  the  events  and 
incidents  are  related  chronologically  by  years.  It  is  incom- 
plete, ending  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  the  twenty-first  year 
of  the  war. 

Of  the  author  himself,  beyond  such  scant  autobiographical 
notices  as  the  history  itself  contains,  little  is  known.  "  Thu- 
cydidcs an  Athenian,"  is  his  own  description  of  himself. 
When  he  became  an  Athenian,  that  is,  when  he  was  born,  no 
one  can  positively  say.  The  date  given  on  doubtful  author- 
ity is  471  B.  C.  This  must  be  pretty  near  the  mark,  for  the 
historian  tells  us  that  he  was  of  mature  age  when  the  war 
commenced,  and  that  was  431  B.  C.  The  writer  was  himself 
an  actor  in  the  affairs  of  which  he  wrote  ;  but  the  part  he 
performed  was  not  prosperous,  and  it  seems  that,  according 
to  a  way  the  Athenians  had,  he  was  banished  for  his  miscar- 
riage in  generalship.  Twenty  years  of  exile  gave  him  an 
opportunity  to  look  at  matters  with  a  strong  parallax,  that  is, 
from  the  Peloponnesian,  in  place  of  the  Athenian,  point  of 
view.  During  this  long  absence  of  Thucydides  from  his 
native  city,  a  sharp  change  in  literary  style  and  taste  took 
place  at  Athens,  nothing  less  than  the  transition  from  the  Old 
Attic,  so-called,  to  the  New.     This  mutation  in  mode  Thu- 


56  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

cydides  did  not  share.  He  remains  the  great  representative 
in  prose,  as  is  -^schylus  in  verse,  of  the  old  Attic  literature. 
There  seems  a  certain  fitness  between  his  own  personal  char- 
acter as  displayed  in  his  writings,  and  the  austere  diction 
and  syntax  in  which  Thucydides  wrote.  Ellipsis,  lack  of 
strict  grammatical  concord,  archaic  idiom,  sententiousness, 
not  infrequent  obscurity,  are  marks  of  his  style.  These 
traits  almost  disappear — they  disappear  certainly  as  far  as 
they  should — in  the  magically  perfect  translation  of  Mr. 
Jowett,  a  translation,  we  doubt  not,  as  near  to  ideal  in 
fidelity  and  in  felicity,  as  exists  of  any  work  in  any  language. 
Let  us  begin  at  once  with  Thucydides  in  Mr.  Jowett's  trans- 
lation : 

Thucydides,  an  Athenian,  wrote  the  history  of  the  war  in  which  the 
Peloponnesians  and  the  Athenians  fought  against  one  another.  He 
began  to  write  when  they  first  took  up  arms,  believing  that  it  would  be 
great  and  memorable  above  any  previous  war.  For  he  argued  that  both 
states  were  then  at  the  full  height  of  their  military  power,  and  he  saw 
the  rest  of  the  Hellenes  either  siding  or  intending  to  side  with  one  or 
other  of  them.  No  movement  ever  stirred  Hellas  more  deeply  than 
this  ;  it  was  shared  by  many  of  the  Barbarians,  and  might  be  said  even 
to  affect  the  world  at  large. 

The  foregoing  is  the  way  in  which  Thucydides  commences 
his  history.  The  effect  upon  "  the  world  at  large "  was 
limited  to  the  exciting  of  a  disposition  in  the  Persians  to 
participate  by  intrigue  or  by  alliance  in  the  conflict,  with  a 
view  on  their  part  to  ultimate  incorporating  of  Hellas  in 
their  empire. 

What  immediately  follows  the  sentence  quoted  above  has 
been  thought  by  some  to  be  a  slant  at  Herodotus.  Let  our 
readers  judge  for  themselves.     Here  it  is  : 

The  character  of  the  events  which  preceded,  whether  immediately  or 
in  more  remote  antiquity,  owing  to  the  lapse  of  time  cannot  be  made 
out  with  certainty.  But,  judging  from  the  evidence  which  I  am  able  to 
trust  after  most  careful  inquiry,  I  should  imagine  that  former  ages  were 
not  great,  either  in  their  wars  or  in  any  thing  else. 


Thucydides,  57 


If  Thucydides  indeed  meant  this  for  an  anonymous  disr 
paragement  of  Herodotus,  let  us  forget  it  of  him.  I  am 
afraid  we  should  not  otherwise  successfully  forgive  him  for  it. 

After  some  dull  pages  of  learned  disquisition  on  antiqui- 
ties, in  which  the  historian  turns  critic,  and  almost  cynical 
critic  at  that,  on  the  credulity  of  his  countrymen  in  general, 
he  says  once  more  something  that  is  capable  of  being  under- 
stood to  be  a  fling  at  Herodotus.  The  reader  is  warned  by 
Thucydides  not  to  be  "misled  "  by  the  tales  of  chroniclers 
that  seek  to  please  the  ear  rather  than  to  speak  the  truth. 
The  chief  passage  in  which  our  author  sets  forth  his  own 
method  of  historical  composition  is  too  important  to  be 
omitted.     We  give  it : 

As  to  the  speeches  which  were  made  either  before  or  during  the  war, 
it  was  hard  for  me,  and  for  others  who  reported  them  to  me,  to  recollect 
the  exact  words.  I  have,  therefore,  put  into  the  mouth  of  each  speaker 
the  sentiments  proper  to  the  occasion,  expressed  as  I  thought  he  would 
be  likely  to  express  them,  while  at  the  same  time  I  endeavored,  as  nearly 
as  I  could,  to  give  the  general  purport  of  what  was  actually  said.  Of 
the  events_of  the  war  I  have  not  ventured  to  speak  from  any  chance 
information,  nor  according  to  any  notion  of  my  own  ;  I  have  described 
nothing  but  what  I  either  saw  myself,  or  learned  from  others  of  whom  I 
made  the  most  careful  and  particular  inquiry.  The  task  was  a  laborious 
one,  because  eye-witnesses  of  the  same  occurrences  gave  different  ac- 
counts of  them,  as  they  remembered  or  were  interested  in  the  actions  of 
one  side  or  the  other.  And  very  likely  the  strictly  historical  character 
of  my  narrative  may  be  disappointing  to  the  ear.  But  if  he  who  desires 
to  have  before  his  eyes  a  true  picture  of  the  events  which  have  hap- 
pened, and  of  the  like  events  which  may  be  expected  to  happen  here- 
after in  the  order  of  human  things,  shall  pronounce  what  I  have  written 
to  be  useful,  then  I  shall  be  satisfied.  My  history  is  an  everlasting 
possession,  not  a  prize  composition  which  is  heard  and  forgotten. 

The  statement  of  the  causes,  or  rather  the  occasions,  that 
led  to  the  Peloponnesian  war  we  may  pass  over.  "  The  real 
though  unavowed  cause,"  says  Thucydides,  "  I  believe  to 
have  been  the  growth  of  the  Athenian  power,  which  terrified 
the  Lacedaemonians  and  forced  them  into  the  war." 
3* 


58  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

The  account,  too,  given  by  Thucydides  of  the  course  of 
policy  through  which  Athens  grew  menacingly  great,  we  will 
omit,  except  as  it  contains  mention  of  a  certain  personage 
in  whom  we  may  with  confidence  suppose  our  readers  to 
have  become  much  interested  out  of  Herodotus.  This  per- 
sonage is  no  other  than  that  typical  Greek,  Themistocles. 
In  telling  us  of  him,  Thucydides,  without  expressly  saying  so, 
makes  his  history  meet  and  continue  the  history  of  Herodotus. 

We  simply  remind  our  readers  that  the  close  of  the  Per- 
sian war  indeed  left  Xerxes  in  disastrous  retreat,  but  it  also 
left  Athens  in  ruins.  The  Lacedaemonians  sent  word  to  the 
Athenians  not  to  rebuild  their  city  walls.  For  this  advice 
they  pleaded  certain  specious  reasons ;  but  their  real  motive, 
Thucydides  says,  was  jealousy  of  Athens.  Now  comes  in 
that  man  of  many  wiles,  Themistocles.  Let  Thucydides 
speak  : 

To  this  [the  Lacedaemonian  suggestion  about  the  city  walls]  the  Athe- 
nians, by  the  advice  of  Themistocles,  replied,  that  they  would  send  an 
embassy  of  their  own  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  so  got  lid  of  the  Spar- 
tan envoys.  He  then  proposed  that  he  should  himseff  start  at  once  for 
Sparta,  and  that  they  should  give  him  colleagues  who  were  not  to  go 
immediately,  but  were  to  wait  until  the  wall  reached  the  lowest  height 
which  could  possibly  be  defended.  The  whole  people,  men,  women,  and 
children,  should  join  in  the  work,  and  they  must  spare  no  building, 
private  or  public,  which  could  be  of  use,  but  demolish  them  all.  Having 
given  these  instructions  and  intimated  that  he  would  manage  affairs  at 
Sparta,  he  departed.  On  his  arrival  he  did  not  at  once  present  himself 
officially  to  the  magistrates,  but  delayed  and  made  excuses;  and  when 
any  of  them  asked  him  "why  he  did  not  appear  before  the  assembly," 
he  said  "  that  he  was  waiting  for  his  colleagues,  who  had  been  detained 
by  some  engagement,  he  was  daily  expecting  them,  and  wondered  that 
they  had  not  appeared." 

The  friendship  of  the  Lacedaemonian  magistrates  for  Themistocles 
induced  them  to  believe  him  ;  but  when  every  body  who  came  from 
Athens  declared  positively  that  the  wall  was  building  and  had  already 
reached  a  considerable  height,  they  knew  not  what  to  think.  He,  aware 
of  their  suspicions,  desired  them  not  to  be  misled  by  reports,  but  to 
send  to  Athens  men  whom  they  could  trust  out  of  their  own  number 


Thucydides.  59 


who  would  see  for  themselves  and  bring  back  word.  They  agreed  ;  and 
he  at  the  same  time  privately  instructed  the  Athenians  to  detain  the 
envoys  as  quietly  as  they  could,  and  not  let  them  go  until  he  and  his  col- 
leagues had  got  safely  home.  For  by  this  time  Ha-bron'i-chus,  the  son  of 
Lys'i-cles,  and  Ar-is-ti'des,  the  son  of  Ly-sim'a-chus,  who  were  joined  with 
him  in  the  embassy,  had  arrived,  bringing  the  news  that  the  wall  was  of 
sufficient  height  ;  and  he  was  afraid  that  the  Lacedaemonians,  when 
they  heard  the  truth,  might  not  allow  them  to  return.  So  the  Athenians 
detained  the  envoys,  and  Themistocles,  coming  before  the  Lacedaemo- 
nians, at  length  declared  in  so  many  words  that  Athens  was  now  pro- 
vided with  walls  and  could  protect  her  citizens  ;  henceforward,  if  the 
Lacedaemonians  or  their  allies  wished  at  any  time  to  negotiate,  they 
must  deal  with  the  Athenians  as  with  men  who  knew  quite  well  what 
was  for  their  own  and  the  common  good.  When  they  boldly  resolved  to 
leave  their  city  and  go  on  board  ship,  they  did  not  first  ask  the  advice  of 
the  Lacedaemonians,  and,  when  the  two  states  met  in  council,  their  own 
judgment  had  been  as  good  as  that  of  any  one.  And  now  they  had 
arrived  at  an  independent  opinion  that  it  was  better  far,  and  would  be 
more  advantageous,  both  for  themselves  and  for  the  whole  body  of  the 
allies,  that  their  city  should  have  a  wall;  when  any  member  of  a  con- 
federacy had  not  equal  military  advantages,  his  counsel  could  not  be  of 
equal  weight  or  worth.  Either  all  the  allies  should  pull  down  their 
walls,  or  they,  should  acknowledge  that  the  Athenians  were  in  the  right. 

Themistocles  was  something  besides  a  consummate  trick- 
ster; he  was  a  far-seeing  statesman.  He  it  was  who  con- 
ceived for  Athens  the  idea  which  afterward,  embraced  and 
carried  to  its  complete  realization  by  Pericles,  made  that 
city  during  a  brief  and  splendid  culmination  of  her  power,  if 
not  quite  mistress  of  Hellas,  at  least  undisputed  leader  in 
Hellenic  affairs.  Here  is  the  passage  in  which  Thucydides 
describes  the  policy  forecast  by  Themistocles.  (We  need  but 
direct  our  readers'  attention  to  the  fact  that  Athens,  situated 
some  four  or  five  miles  inland  from  the  sea,  had  her  harbor 
— or  rather  her  harbors,  for  there  were  three  of  them — on  a 
peninsula  called  the  Pi-rse'us  :) 

Themistocles  also  persuaded  the  Athenians  to  finish  the  Piraeus,  of 
which  he  had  made  a  beginning  in  his  year  of  office  as  Archon.  The 
situation  of  the  place,  which  had  three  natural  havens,  was  excellent: 


6o  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

and,  now  that  the  Athenians  had  become  sailors,  he  thought  that  a  good 
harbor  would  greatly  contribute  to  the  extension  of  their  power.  For 
he  first  dared  to  say  that  "  they  must  make  the  sea  their  domain,"  and  he 
lost  no  time  in  laying  the  foundations  of  their  empire.  By  his  advice 
they  built  the  wall  of  such  a  width  that  two  wagons  carrying  the  stones 
could  meet  and  pass  on  the  top ;  this  width  may  still  be  traced  at  the 
Piraeus  ;  inside  there  was  no  rubble  or  mortar,  but  the  whole  wall  was 
made  up  of  large  stones  hewn  square,  which  were  clamped  on  the  outer 
face  with  iron  and  lead.  The  height  was  not  more  than  half  what  he 
had  originally  intended  ;  he  had  hoped  by  the  very  dimensions  of  the 
wall  to  paralyze  the  designs  of  an  enemy,  and  he  thought  that  a  handful 
of  the  least  efficient  citizens  would  suffice  for  its  defense,  while  the  rest 
might  man  the  fleet.  His  mind  was  turned  in  this  direction,  as  I  con- 
ceive, from  observing  that  the  Persians  had  met  with  fewer  obstacles  by 
sea  than  by  land.  The  Piraeus  appeared  to  him  to  be  of  more  real  conse- 
quence than  the  upper  city.  He  was  fond  of  telling  the  Athenians  that 
if  they  were  hard  pressed  they  should  go  down  to  the  Piraus  and  fight 
the  world  at  sea. 

Thus  the  Athenians  built  their  walls  and  restored  their  city  immedi- 
ately after  the  retreat  of  the  Persians. 

We  exercise  great  self-restraint  in  omitting  a  very  interesting 
episode  of  allusion  to  Pau-sa'ni-as,  the  Spartan  king,  who  made 
himself  famous  fighting  against  Xerxes,  and  then  made 
himself  infamous  intriguing  with  Artaxerxes,  Xerxes'  suc- 
cessor. Themistocles,  too,  tarnished  his  glory  with  treason  at 
last.  With  the  story  of  this,  and  of  the  inexhaustible  re- 
sources which  Themistocles  displayed  in  avoiding  the  con- 
sequences of  his  exposure  and  in  pushing  his  fortunes  in 
Persia,  we  dismiss  this  brilliant  but  unscrupulous  Greek  from 
our  view.     Thucydides  says  : 

Now  the  evidence  which  proved  that  Pausanias  was  in  league  with 
Persia  implicated  Themistocles  ;  and  the  Lacedaemonians  sent  ambassa- 
dors to  the  Athenians  charging  him  likewise  with  treason,  and  demand- 
ing that  he  should  receive  the  same  punishment.  The  Athenians 
agreed,  but  having  been  ostracised  he  was  living  at  the  time  in  Argos, 
whence  he  used  to  visit  other  parts  of  the  Peloponnese.  The  Lacedaemo- 
nians were  very  ready  to  join  in  the  pursuit  ;  so  they  and  the  Athenians 
sent  officers  who  were  told  to  arrest  him  wherever  they  should  find  him. 


Thucydides.  6i 


Themistocles  received  information  of  their  purpose,  and  fled  from  the 
Peloponnesus  to  the  Cor-cy-rae'ans,  who  were  under  an  obligation  to  him. 
The  Corcyrasans  said  that  they  were  afraid  to  keep  him,  lest  they 
should  incur  the  emnity  of  Athens  and  Lacedsemon  ;  so  they  conveyed 
him  to  the  neighboring  continent,  whither  he  was  followed  by  the  officers, 
who  constantly  inquired  in  which  direction  he  had  gone  and  pursued 
him  everywhere.  Owing  to  an  accident,  he  was  compelled  to  stop  at 
the  house  of  Ad-me'tus,  king  of  the  Molossians,  who  was  not  his  friend. 
He  chanced  to  be  absent  from  home,  but  Themistocles  presented 
himself  as  a  suppliant  to  his  wife,  and  was  instructed  by  her  to  take 
their  child  and  sit  at  the  hearth.  Admetus  soon  returned,  and  then 
Themistocles  told  him  who  he  was,  adding,  that  if  in  past  times  he  had 
opposed  any  request  which  Admetus  had  made  to  the  Athenians,  he 
ought  not  to  retaliate  on  an  exile.  He  was  now  in  such  extremity  that 
a  far  weaker  adversary  than  he  could  do  him  a  mischief,  but  a  noble  nature 
should  not  be  revenged  by  taking  at  a  disadvantage  one  so  good  as  him- 
self. Themistocles  further  argued  that  he  had  opposed  Admetus  in  some 
matter  of  business,  and  not  when  life  was  at  stake  ;  but  that,  if  Admetus 
delivered  him  up,  he  would  be  consigning  him  to  death.  At  the  same 
time  he  told  him  who  his  pursuers  were  and  what  was  the  charge  against 
him. 

Admetus,  hearing  his  words,  raised  him  up,  together  with  his  own  son, 
from  the  place  where  he  sat  holding  the  child  in  his  arms,  which  was 
the  most  solemn  form  of  supplication.  Not  long  afterward  the  Atheni- 
ans and  Lacedaemonians  came  and  pressed  him  to  give  up  the  fugitive, 
but  he  refused  ;  and  as  Themistocles  wanted  to  go  to  the  King  [of  Per- 
sia], sent  him  on  foot  across  the  country  to  the  sea  at  Pydna  (which  was 
in  the  kingdom  of  "Alexander. )  There  he  found  a  merchant  vessel 
sailing  to  Ionia,  in  which  he  embarked  ;  it  was  driven,  however,  by  a 
storm  to  the  station  of  the  Athenian  fleet  which  was  blockading  Naxos. 
He  was  unknown  to  his  fellow-passengers,  but,  fearing  what  might  hap- 
pen, he  told  the  captain  who  he  was  and  why  he  fled,  threatening,  if  he 
did  not  save  his  life,  to  say  that  he  had  been  bribed  to  take  him  on 
board.  The  only  hope  was  that  no  one  should  be  allowed  to  leave  the 
ship  while  they  had  to  remain  off  Naxos  ;  if  he  complied  with  his  re- 
quest, the  obligation  should  be  abundantly  repaid.  The  captain 
agreed,  and,  after  anchoring  in  a  rough  sea  for  a  day  and  a  night  off  the 
Athenian  station,  he  at  length  arrived  at  Ephesus.  Themistocles  re- 
warded him  with  a  liberal  present  :  for  he  received  soon  afterward  from 
his  friends  the  property  which  he  had  deposited  at  Athens  and  Argos. 
He  then  went  up  the  country  with  one  of  the  Persians  who  dwelt  on  the 


62  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

coast,  and  sent  a  letter  to  Artaxerxes,  the  son  of  Xerxes,  who  had  just 
succeeded  to  the  throne.  The  letter  was  in  the  following  words  :  "I, 
Themistocles,  have  come  to  you  ;  I  who  of  all  Hellenes  did  your  house 
the  greatest  injuries,  so  long  as  I  was  compelled  to  defend  myself  against 
your  father ;  but  still  greater  benefits  when  I  was  in  safety  and  he  in 
danger  during  his  retreat.  And  there  is  a  debt  of  gratitude  due  to  me  " 
(here  he  noted  how  he  had  forewarned  Xerxes  at  Salamis  of  the  resolution 
of  the  Hellenes  to  withdraw,  and  how  through  his  influence,  as  he 
pretended,  they  had  refrained  from  breaking  down  the  bridges.)  *'  Now 
I  am  here,  able  to  do  you  many  other  services,  and  persecuted  by  the 
Hellenes  for  your  sake.  Let  me  wait  a  year,  and  then  I  will  myself 
explain  why  I  have  come." 

The  king  is  said  to  have  been  astonished  at  the  boldness  of  his  char- 
acter, and  told  him  to  wait  a  year  as  he  proposed.  In  the  interval  he 
made  himself  acquainted,  as  far  as  he  could,  with  the  Persian  language 
and  the  manners  of  the  country.  When  the  year  was  over  he  arrived  at 
the  court  and  became  a  greater  man  there  than  any  Hellene  had  ever 
been  before.  This  was  due  partly  to  his  previous  reputation,  and  partly 
to  the  hope  which  he  inspired  in  the  king's  mind  that  he  would  enslave 
Hellas  to  him  ;  above  all,  his  ability  had  been  tried  and  not  found  want- 
ing. For  Themistocles  was  a  man  whose  natural  force  was  unmistaka- 
ble ;  this  was  the  quality  for  which  he  was  distinguished  above  all 
other  men  ;  from  his  own  native  acuteness,  and  without  any  study,  either 
before  or  at  the  time,  he  was  the  ablest  judge  of  the  course  to  be  pur- 
sued in  a  sudden  emergency,  and  could  best  divine  what  was  likely  to 
happen  in  the  remotest  future.  Whatever  he  had  in  hand  he  had  the 
power  of  explaining  to  others,  and  even  where  he  had  no  experience  he 
was  quite  competent  to  form  a  sufficient  judgment ;  no  one  could  foresee 
with  equal  clearness  the  good  or  evil  event  which  was  hidden  in  the 
future.  In  a  word,  Themistocles,  by  natural  power  of  mind  and  with 
the  least  preparation,  was  of  all  men  the  best  able  to  extemporize  the 
right  thing  to  be  done.  A  sickness  put  an  end  to  his  life,  although 
some  say  that  he  poisoned  himself  because  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
accomplish  what  he  had  promised  to  the  king. 

Pausanias  had  an  end  quite  as  disgraceful  and  more 
tragical  far.  Mil-ti'a-des,  too,  the  hero  of  Marathon, 
whose  trophies  would  not  let  Themistocles  sleep,  came 
to  an  ill  end.  In  truth,  the  Greek  character  seemed 
not  to  be  able  to  carry,  with  sobriety  and  balance,  deep 
draughts  of  the  wine  of  success.      Of  her  great  men  few 


Thucydides.  (*% 


were  fortunate  enough  to  finish  their  career  without  great 
lapses  of  weakness. 

While  Athens  had  been  reviving  through  the  genius  of 
Themistocles,  Sparta  had  been  making  herself  odious  through 
the  insolence  of  Pausanias.  Thus  Hellas  forsook  Sparta  and 
came  over  to  Athens.  Then,  in  her  turn,  Athens  became 
overbearing  and  unbearable,  and  the  Peloponnesian  war 
broke  out.  Pericles  was  in  power  at  the  time.  We  should 
like,  did  space  permit,  to  give  the  speech  in  favor  of  war 
which  Thucydides  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Pericles.  With  a 
single  specimen,  however,  of  that  Periclean  eloquence  which 
contemporaries  praised  as  Olympian,  but  which  survives  only 
in  the  free  redaction  of  Thucydides,  we  shall  be  forced  to 
make  our  readers  content;  and  the  specimen  must  be  the  cel- 
ebrated oration  pronounced  by  him  on  the  Athenian  dead  at 
the  close  of  the  first  year  of  the  war.  To  this  we  proceed 
at  once.  The  occasion  is  described  and  the  oration  reported 
by  Thucydides  as  follows:  (the  dots  occurring  indicate 
omissions  necessary  for  economy  of  space:) 

In  accordance  with  an  old  national  custom,  the  funeral  of  those  who 
first  fell  in  this  war  was  celebrated  by  the  Athenians  at  the  public  charge. 
The  ceremony  is  as  follows  :  Three  days  before  the  celebration  they 
erect  a  tent  in  which  the  bones  of  the  dead  are  laid  out,  and  every 
one  brings  to  his  own  dead  any  offering  which  he  pleases.  At  the  time 
of  the  funeral  the  bones  are  placed  in  chests  of  cypress  wood,  which  are 
conveyed  on  hearses  ;  there  is  one  chest  for  each  tribe.  They  also  carry 
a  single  empty  litter  decked  with  a  pall  for  all  whose  bodies  are  miss- 
ing and  cannot  be  recovered  after  the  battle.  The  procession  is  accom- 
panied by  any  one  who  chooses,  whether  citizen  or  stranger,  and  the 
female  relatives  of  the  deceased  are  present  at  the  place  of  interment  and 
make  lamentation.  The  public  sepulchre  is  situated  in  the  most  beauti- 
ful spot  outside  the  walls  ;  there  they  always  bury  those  who  fall  in  war : 
only  after  the  battle  of  Marathon  the  dead,  in  recognition  of  their  pre- 
eminent valor,  were  interred  on  the  field.  When  the  remains  have  been 
laid  in  the  earth,  some  man  of  known  ability  and  high  reputation, 
chosen  by  the  city,  delivers  a  suitable  oration  over  them,  after  which  the 
people  depart.     Such  is  the  manner  of  interment  ;    and  the  ceremony 


64  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

was  repeated  from  time  to  time  throughout  the  war.  Over  those 
who  were  the  first  buried  Pericles  was  chosen  to  speak.  At  the  fitting 
moment  he  advanced  from  the  sepulchre  to  a  lofty  stage,  which  had 
been  erected  in  order  that  he  might  be  heard  as  far  as  possible  by  the 
multitude,  and  spoke  as  follows; 

FUNERAL   SPEECH. 

..."  Before  I  praise  the  dead  I  should  like  to  point  out  by  what 
principles  of  action  we  rose  to  power,  and  under  what  institutions  and 
through  what  manner  of  life  our  empire  became  great.  For  I  conceive 
that  such  thoughts  are  not  unsuited  to  the  occasion,  and  that  this  numer- 
ous assembly  of  citizens  and  strangers  may  profitably  listen  to  them. 

"  Our  form  of  government  does  not  enter  into  rivalry  with  the  insti- 
tutions of  others.  [Pericles  must  be  understood  as  freely  slanting 
at  Sparta.]  We  do  not  copy  our  neighbors,  but  are  an  example  to 
them.  It  is  true  that  we  are  called  a  democracy,  for  the  administra- 
tion is  in  the  hands  of  the  many  and  not  of  the  few.  But  while  the 
law  secures  equal  justice  to  all  alike  in  their  private  disputes,  the  claim 
of  excellence  is  also  recognized;  and  when  a  citizen  is  in  any  way  dis- 
tinguished, he  is  preferred  to  the  public  service,  not  as  a  matter  of  privi- 
lege, but  as  the  reward  of  merit.  Neither  is  poverty  a  bar,  but  a  man 
may  benefit  his  country  whatever  be  the  obscurity  of  his  condition. 
There  is  no  exclusiveness  in  our  public  life,  and  in  our  private  inter- 
course we  are  not  suspicious  of  one  another,  nor  angry  with  our  neigh- 
bor if  he  does  what  he  likes  ;  we  do  not  put  on  sour  looks  at  him  which, 
though  harmless,  are  not  pleasant.  While  we  are  thus  unconstrained  in 
our  private  intercourse,  a  spirit  of  reverence  pervades  our  public  acts  ; 
we  are  prevented  from  doing  wrong  by  respect  for  authority  and  for  the 
laws,  having  an  especial  regard  to  those  which  are  ordained  for  the 
protection  of  the  injured,  as  well  as  to  those  unwritten  laws  which  bring 
upon  the  transgressor  of  them  the  reprobation  of  the  general  sentiment. 

"And  we  have  not  forgotten  to  provide  for  our  weary  spirits  many 
relaxations  from  toil ;  we  have  regular  games  and  sacrifices  throughout 
the  year  ;  at  home  the  style  of  our  life  is  refined  ;  and  the  delight  which 
we  daily  feel  in  all  these  things  helps  to  banish  melancholy.  Because  of 
the  greatness  of  our  city  the  fruits  of  the  whole  earth  flow  in  upon  us  ; 
so  that  we  enjoy  the  goods  of  other  countries  as  freely  as  of  our  own. 

"Then,  again,  our  military  training  is  in  many  respects  superior  to 
that  of  our  adversaries.  Our  city  is  thrown  open  to  the  world,  and  we 
never  expel  a  foreigner  or  prevent  him  from  seeing  or  learning  anything 
of  which  the  secret  if  revealed  to  an  enemy  might  profit  him.     We  rely 


Thucydides.  65 


not  upon  management  or  trickery,  but  upon  our  own  hearts  and  hands. 
And  in  the  matter  of  education,  whereas  they  from  early  youth  are 
always  undergoing  laborious  exercises  which  are  to  make  them  brave, 
we  live  at  ease,  and  yet  are  equally  ready  to  face  the  perils  which  they 
face.  And  here  is  the  proof.  The  Lacedaemonians  come  into  Attica 
not  by  themselves,  but  with  their  whole  confederacy  following ;  we  go 
alone  into  a  neighbor's  country;  and  although  our  opponents  are  fighting 
for  their  homes  and  we  on  a  foreign  soil,  we  have  seldom  any  difficulty  in 
overcoming  them.  Our  enemies  have  never  yet  felt  our  united  strength  ; 
the  care  of  a  navy  divides  our  attention,  and  on  land  we  are  obliged  to 
send  our  own  citizens  everywhere.  But  they,  if  theymeet  and  defeat  a 
part  of  our  army,  are  as  proud  as  if  they  had  routed  us  all,  and  when 
defeated  they  pretend  to  have  been  vanquished  by  us  all. 

"  If,  then,  we  prefer  to  meet  danger  with  a  light  heart  but  without 
laborious  training,  and  with  a  courage  which  is  gained  by  habit  and  not 
enforced  by  law,  are  we  not  greatly  the  gainers  ?  Since  we  do  not  antici- 
pate the  pain,  although,  when  the  hour  comes,  we  can  be  as  brave  as 
those  who  never  allow  themselves  to  rest ;  and  thus,  too,  our  city  is 
equally  admirable  in  peace  and  in  war.  For  we  are  lovers  of  the  beau- 
tiful, yet  simple  in  our  tastes,  and  we  cultivate  the  mind  without  loss  of 
manliness.  Wealth  we  employ,  not  for  talk  and  ostentation,  but  when 
there  is  a  real  use  for  it.  To  avow  poverty  with  us  is  no  disgrace  :  the 
true  disgrace  is  in  doing  nothing  to  avoid  it.  An  Athenian  citizen  does 
not  neglect  the  state  because  he  takes  care  of  his  own  household  ;  and 
even  those  of  us  who  are  engaged  in  business  have  a  very  fair  idea  of 
politics.  We  alone  regard  a  man  who  takes  no  interest  in  public  affairs, 
not  as  a  harmless,  but  as  a  useless  character  ;  and  if  few  of  us  are  origi- 
nators, we  are  all  sound  judges  of  a  policy.  The  great  impediment  to 
action  is,  in  our  opinion,  not  discussion,  but  the  want  of  that  knowledge 
which  is  gained  by  discussion  preparatory  to  action.  For  we  have  a 
peculiar  power  of  thinking  before  we  act,  and  of  acting  too,  whereas  other 
men  are  courageous  from  ignorance,  but  hesitate  upon  reflection.  And 
they  are  surely  to  be  esteemed  the  bravest  spirits  who,  having  the 
clearest  sense  both  of  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  life,  do  not  on  that 
account  shrink  from  danger.  In  doing  good,  again,  we  are  unlike 
others  ;  we  make  our  friends  by  conferring,  not  by  receiving  favors. 
Now  he  who  confers  a  favor  is  the  firmer  friend,  because  he  would  fain 
by  kindness  keep  alive  the  memory  of  an  obligation  ;  but  the  recipient 
is  colder  in  his  feelings,  because  he  knows  that  in  requiting  another's 
generosity  he  will  not  be  winning  gratitude,  but  only  paying  a  debt. 
We  alone  do  good  to  our  neighbors,  not  upon  a  calculation  of  interest, 


66  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

but  in  the  confidence  of  freedom  and  in  a  frank  and  fearless  spirit.  To 
sum  up  ;  I  say  that  Athens  is  the  school  of  Hellas,  and  that  the  indi- 
vidual Athenian  in  his  own  person  seems  to  have  the  power  of  adapting 
himself  to  the  most  varied  forms  of  action  w^ith  the  utmost  versatility 
and  grace.  This  is  no  passing  and  idle  word,  but  truth  and  fact ;  and 
the  assertion  is  verified  by  the  position  to  which  these  qualities  have 
raised  the  state.  For  in  the  hour  of  trial  Athens  alone  among  her  con- 
temporaries is  superior  to  the  report  of  her.  No  enemy  who  comes 
against  her  is  indignant  at  the  reverses  which  he  sustains  at  the  hands  of 
such  a  city  ;  no  subject  complains  that  his  masters  are  unworthy  of  him. 
And  we  shall  Assuredly  not  be  without  witnesses  ;  there  are  mighty 
monuments  of  our  power  which  will  make  us  the  wonder  of  this  and  of 
succeeding  ages  ;  we  shall  not  need  the  praises  of  Homer  or  of  any 
other  panegyrist  whose  poetry  may  please  for  the  moment,  although  his 
representation  of  the  facts  will  not  bear  the  light  of  day.  For  we  have 
compelled  every  land  and  every  sea  to  open  a  path  for  our  valor,  and 
have  everywhere  planted  eternal  memorials  of  our  friendship  and  of  our 
enmity.  Such  is  the  city  for  whose  sake  these  men  nobly  fought  and 
died  ;  they  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  she  might  be  taken  from 
them  ;  and  every  one  of  us  who  survive  should  gladly  toil  on  her  behalf, 
"  I  have  dwelt  upon  the  greatness  of  Athens  because  I  want  to  show 
you  that  we  are  contending  for  a  higher  prize  than  those  who  enjoy  none 
of  these  privileges,  and  to  establish,  by  manifest  proof,  the  merits  of  these 
men  whom  I  am  now  commemorating.  Their  loftiest  praise  has  been 
already  spoken.  For  in  magnifying  the  city  I  have  magnified  them,  and 
men  like  them  whose  virtues  made  her  glorious.  And  of  how  few  Hel- 
lenes can  it  be  said  as  of  them,  that  their  deeds,  when  weighed  in  the 
balance,  have  been  found  equal  to  their  fame !  Methinks  that  a  death 
such  as  theirs  has  been  gives  the  true  measure  of  a  man's  worth  ;  it  may 
be  the  first  revelation  of  his  virtues,  but  is  at  any  rate  their  final  seal. 
For  even  those  who  come  short  in  other  ways  may  justly  plead  the  valor 
with  which  they  have  fought  for  their  country  ;  they  have  blotted  out  the 
evil  with  the  good,  and  have  benefited  the  state  more  by  their  public 
services  than  they  have  injured  her  by  their  private  actions.  None  of 
these  men  were  enervated  by  wealth  or  hesitated  to  resign  the  pleasures 
of  life  ;  none  of  them  put  off  the  evil  day  in  the  hope,  natural  to  pov- 
erty, that  a  man,  though  poor,  may  one  day  become  rich.  But,  deeming 
that  the  punishment  of  their  enemies  was  sweeter  than  any  of  these 
things,  and  that  they  could  fall  in  no  nobler  cause,  they  determined,  at 
the  hazard  of  their  lives,  to  be  honorably  avenged,  and  to  leave  the  rest. 
They  resigned  to  hope  their  unknown  chance  of  happiness ;  but  in  the 


Thucydides.  67 


face  of  death  they  resolved  to  rely  upon  themselves  alone.  And  when 
the  moment  came  they  were  minded  to  resist  and  suffer,  rather  than  to 
fly  and  save  their  lives  ;  they  ran  away  from  the  word  of  dishonor,  but 
on  the  battle-field  their  feet  stood  fast,  and  in  an  instant,  at  the  height 
of  their  fortune,  they  passed  away  from  the  scene,  not  of  their  fear,  but 
of  their  glory. 

"  Such  was  the  end  of  these  men;  they  were  worthy  of  Athens,  and 
the  living  need  not  desire  to  have  a  more  heroic  spirit,  although  they 
may  pray  for  a  less  fatal  issue.  The  value  of  such  a  spirit  is  not  to  be 
expressed  in  words.  Any  one  can  discourse  to  you  forever  about  the 
advantages  of  a  brave  defense  which  you  know  already.  But  instead  of 
listening  to  him,  I  would  have  you  day  by  day  fix  your  eyes  upon  the 
greatness  of  Athens,  until  you  become  filled  with  the  love  of  her ;  and 
when  you  are  impressed  by  the  spectacle  of  her  glory,  reflect  that  this 
empire  has  been  acquired  by  men  who  knew  their  duty  and  had  the 
courage  to  do  it,  who  in  the  hour  of  conflict  had  the  fear  of  dishonor 
always  present  to  them,  and  who,  if  ever  they  failed  in  an  enterprise, 
would  not  allow  their  virtues  to  be  lost  to  their  country,  but  freely  gave 
their  lives  to  her  as  the  fairest  offering  which  they  could  present  at  her 
feast.  The  sacrifice  which  they  collectively  made  was  individually  repaid 
to  them  ;  for  they  received  again  each  one  for  himself  a  praise  which 
grows  not  old,  and  the  noblest  of  all  sepulchres — I  speak  not  of  that  in 
which  their  remains  are  laid,  but  of  that  in  which  their  glory  survives, 
and  is  proclaimed  always  and  on  every  fitting  occasion,  both  in  word  and 
deed.  For  the  whole  earth  is  the  sepulchre  of  famous  men  ;  not  only 
are  they  commemorated  by  columns  and  inscriptions  in  their  own 
country,  but  in  foreign  lands  there  dwells  also  an  unwritten  memorial  of 
them,  graven  not  on  stone,  but  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

"  I  have  paid  the  required  tribute,  in  obedience  to  the  law,  making  use 
of  such  fitting  words  as  I  had.  The  tribute  of  deeds  has  been  paid  in 
part ;  for  the  dead  have  been  honorably  interred,  and  it  remains  only 
that  their  children  should  be  maintained  at  the  public  charge  until  they 
are  grown  up  ;  this  is  the  solid  prize  with  which,  as  with  a  garland, 
Athens  crowns  her  sons  living  and  dead,  after  a  struggle  like  theirs. 
For  where  the  rewards  of  virtue  are  greatest,  there  the  noblest  citizens 
are  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  state.  And  now,  when  you  have  duly 
lamented,  every  one  his  own  dead,  you  may  depart." 

"  Such,"  adds  the  historian,  "  was  the  order  of  the  funeral 
celebrated,  in  this  winter,  with  the  end  of  which  ended  the 
first  year  of  the  Peloponnesian  war." 


68  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Readers  will  feel  the  proud  pathetic  bravery,  in  struggle 
with  the  "  more  prevailing  sadness,"  that  animates  the  speech. 
An  anticipative  shadow  of  what  was  to  come  seems  to  have 
fallen  backward  on  the  spirit  of  the  orator — or  of  the  his- 
torian. For  Thucydides  was  on  the  eve  now  of  describing 
one  of  the  most  dreadful  visitations  that  ever  befell  a  people 
— the  plague  at  Athens.  Of  this  presently,  but  first  we  call 
attention  to  the  striking  likeness,  in  tone  and  even  in  ex- 
pression, between  the  funeral  oration  of  Pericles  and  the 
address  delivered  by  President  Lincoln,  at  the  dedication 
of  the  Gettysburg  National  Cemetery,  The  topics  and 
sentiments  of  the  great  Athenian  orator  would  many  of  them 
be,  with  little  adaptation,  appropriate  for  use  on  an  American 
Decoration  Day.  So  well  answers  the  heart  of  man  to  man, 
from  race  to  race  and  from  generation  to  generation ! 

Thucydides's  description  of  the  plague  at  Athens  is  re- 
markable for  its  stern  realism  and  its  restrained  pathos.  "  I 
was  myself  attacked,"  the  historian  says,  "  and  witnessed  the 
sufferings  of  others."     Here  is  a  condensation  of  his  account : 

Many  who  were  in  perfect  health,  all  in  a  moment,  and  without  any 
apparent  reason,  were  seized  with  violent  heats  in  the  head  and  with 
redness  and  inflammation  of  the  eyes.  Internally  the  throat  and  the  tongue 
were  quickly  suffused  with  blood,  and  the  breath  became  unnatural  and 
fetid.  There  followed  sneezing  and  hoarseness ;  in  a  short  time  the 
disorder,  accompanied  by  a  violent  cough,  reached  the  chest  ;  then 
fastening  lower  down,  it  would  move  the  stomach  and  bring  on  all  the 
vomits  of  bile  to  which  physicians  have  ever  given  names  ;  and  they 
were  very  distressing.  An  ineffectual  retching,  producing  violent  con- 
vulsions, attacked  most  of  the  sufferers.  .  .  .  They  insisted  on  being 
naked,  and  there  was  nothing  which  they  longed  for  more  eagerly  than 
to  throw  themselves  into  cold  water.  And  many  of  those  who  had  no 
one  to  look  after  them  actually  plunged  into  the  cisterns,  for  they  were 
tormented  by  unceasing  thirst,  which  was  not  in  the  least  assuaged 
whether  they  drank  little  or  much.  They  could  not  sleep.  .  .  .  Either 
they  died  on  the  seventh  or  ninth  day,  not  of  weakness,  for  their 
strength  was  not  exhausted,  but  of  internal  fever,  which  was  the  end  of 
most  ;  or,  if  they  survived,  then  the  disease  descended  into  the  bowels 


Thucydides.  69 


and  there  produced  violent  ulceration  ;  severe  diarrhoea  at  the  same 
time  set  in,  and  at  a  latter  stage  caused  exhaustion,  v^hich  finally,  with 
few  exceptions,  carried  them  off.  .  .  .  Some,  again,  had  no  sooner  re- 
covered than  they  were  seized  with  a  forgetfulness  of  all  things,  and 
knew  neither  themselves  nor  their  friends. 

The  malady  took  a  form  not  to  be  described,  and  the  fury  with  which 
it  fastened  upon  each  sufferer  was  too  much  for  human  nature  to  endure. 
.  .  .  Most  appalling  was  the  despondency  which  seized  upon  any  one  who 
felt  himself  sickening;  for  he  instantly  abandoned  his  mind  to  despair  and, 
instead  of  holding  out,  absolutely  threw  away  his  chance  of  life.  Ap- 
palling too  was  the  rapidity  with  which  men  caught  the  infection ;  dy- 
ing like  sheep  if  they  attended  on  one  another  ;  and  this  was  the  prin- 
cipal cause  of  mortality.  .  .  .  But  whatever  instances  there  may  have 
been  of  such  devotion,  more  often  the  sick  and  the  dying  were  tended 
by  the  pitying  care  of  those  who  had  recovered,  because  they  knew  the 
course  of  the  disease  and  were  themselves  free  from  apprehension.  For 
no  one  was  ever  attacked  a  second  time,  or  not  with  a  fatal  result.  .  .  . 
The  dead  lay  as  they  had  died,  one  upon  another,  while  others  hardly 
alive  wallowed  in  the  streets  and  crawled  about  every  fountain  craving 
for  water.  The  temples  in  which  they  lodged  were  full  of  the  corpses  of 
those  who  died  in  them  ;  for  the  violence  of  the  calamity  was  such  that 
men,  not  knowing  where  to  turn,  grew  reckless  of  all  law,  human  and 
divine.  The  customs  which  had  hitherto  been  observed  at  funerals 
were  universally  violated,  and  they  buried  their  dead,  each  one  as  best 
he  could.  Many  having  no  proper  appliances  because  the  deaths  in 
their  household  had  been  so  frequent,  made  no  scruple  of  using  the 
burial-place  of  others.  When  one  man  had  raised  a  funeral  pile,  others 
would  come,  and  throwing  on  their  dead  first,  set  fire  to  it  ;  or  when 
some  other  corpse  was  already  burning,  before  they  could  be  stopped 
would  throw  their  own  dead  upon  it  and  depart. 

There  were  other  and  worse  forms  of  lawlessness  which  the  plague 
introduced  at  Athens.  Men  who  had  hitherto  concealed  their  indul- 
gence in  pleasure  now  grew  bolder.  For,  seeing  the  sudden  change, — 
how  the  rich  died  in  a  moment,  and  those  who  had  nothing  immedi- 
ately inherited  their  property, — they  reflected  that  life  and  riches  were 
alike  transitory,  and  they  resolved  to  enjoy  themselves  while  they  could, 
and  to  think  only  of  pleasure.  Who  would  be  willing  to  sacrifice  him- 
self to  the  law  of  honor,  when  he  knew  not  whether  he  would  ever  live 
to  be  held  in  honor?  The  pleasure  of  the  moment  and  any  sort  of  thing 
which  conduced  to  it  took  the  place  both  of  honor  and  of  expediency. 
No  fear  of  God  or  law  of  man  deterred  a  criminal.     Those  who  saw  all 


7©  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

perishing  alike,  thought  that  the  worship  or  neglect  of  the  gods  made 
no  difference.  For  offenses  against  human  law  no  punishment  was  to 
be  feared  ;  no  one  would  live  long  enough  to  be  called  to  account. 
Already  a  far  heavier  sentence  had  been  passed  and  was  hanging  over  a 
man's  head ;  before  that  fell,  why  should  he  not  take  a  little  pleasure  ? 

Is  not  that  powerfully  written }  The  power  of  it  lies 
largely  in  its  self-evidencing  genuineness.  The  grim  reality 
described  revives  in  the  life-like  limning  of  the  artist.  A  de- 
tail follows  in  the  text  of  Thucydides  which  we  must  repro- 
duce here  for  the  light  that  it  throws,  first,  on  the  historian's 
own  individual  character  displayed  in  his  way  of  reporting 
it,  and  then  on  the  life  of  the  ancient  world  as  that  life  was 
qualified  by  the  prevailing  religion  of  the  times.    Thucydides  : 

In  their  troubles  they  [the  Athenians]  naturally  called  to  mind  averse 
which  the  elder  men  among  them  declared  to  have  been  current  long 
ago; 

•'  A  Dorian  war  will  come  and  a  plague  with  it." 

There  was  a  dispute  about  the  precise  expression  ;  some  saying  that 
limos,  a  famine,  and  not  loimos,  a  plague,  was  the  original  word. 
Nevertheless,  as  might  have  been  expected,  for  men's  memories  reflected 
their  sufferings,  the  argument  in  favor  of  loimos  prevailed  at  the  time. 
But  if  ever  in  future  years  another  Dorian  war  arises,  which  happens  to 
be  accompanied  by  a  famine,  they  will  probably  repeat  the  verse  in  the 
other  form.  The  answer  of  the  oracle  to  the  Lacedaemonians  when  the 
god  was  asked  "  whether  they  should  go  to  war  or  not,"  and  he  replied, 
"  that  if  they  fought  with  all  their  might  they  would  conquer,  and  that 
he  himself  would  take  their  part,"  was  not  forgotten  by  those  who 
had  heard  of  it,  and  they  quite  imagined  that  they  were  witnessing  the 
fulfillment  of  his  words.  The  disease  certainly  did  set  in  immediately 
after  the  invasion  of  the  Peloponnesians,  and  did  not  spread  into 
Peloponnesus  in  any  degree  worth  speaking  of,  while  Athens  felt  its 
ravages  most  severely,  and  next  to  Athens  the  places  which  were  most 
populous. 

How  different  the  dry  skepticism  of  Thucydides  from  the 
devout  credulity  with  which  Herodotus  would  have  recounted 
those  fulfillments  of  oracular  prophecy  ! 

The    Athenians,   light-hearted  and  high-hearted   as  they 


Thucydides. 


71 


were,  felt  depressed.  They  blamed  Pericles  as  the  author  of 
their  miseries.  Thucydides  reports  the  proudly  dignified, 
reproving,  yet  inspiriting  speech  with  which  the  "  Olympian  " 
encountered  and  subdued  their  mood.  "  The  popular  in- 
dignation," however,  so  Thucydides  says,  "  was  not  pacified 
until  they  had  fined  Pericles ; 
but  soon  afterward,  with  the 
usual  fickleness  of  the  multi- 
tude, they  elected  him  general 
and  committed  all  their  affairs 
to  his  charge."  But  Pericles 
did  not  long  survive  to  light 
and  guide  the  Athenian  state 
on  its  now  perilous  way.  In 
the  third  year  of  the  war  he 
died.  The  admiring  portrait 
that  Thucydides  draws  of  the 
character  of  this  great  states- 
man and  orator  is  too  noble, 
alike  in  its  subject  and  in  its 
art,  not  to  be  supplied  to  our 
readers.  Thucydides  is  singu- 
lar in  seldom  according  personal 
praise.  But  with  Pericles  he 
was  fascinated,  and  he  could  not  refrain  his  hand  from  the 
few  strokes  that  would  fix  his  favorite's  image  forever,  a 
possession  to  posterity.  The  admirers  of  Webster  will  not 
fail  to  see  how  well  a  great  statesman  and  orator  of  our  own 
nation  might  have  sat  for  the  following  picture : 


PERICLES. 


After  his  death  his  foresight  was  even  better  appreciated  than  during 
his  life.  .  .  .  He,  deriving  authority  from  his  capacity  and  acknowledged 
worth,  being  also  a  man  of  transparent  integrity,  was  able  to  control  the 
multitude  in  a  free  spirit;  he  led  them  rather  than  was  led  by  them; 
for,  not  seeking  power  by  dishonest  arts,  he  had  no  need  to  say  pleasant 
things,  but,  on  the  strength  of  his  own  high  character,  could  venture  to 


72  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

oppose  and  even  to  anger  them.  When  he  saw  them  unseasonably 
elated  and  arrogant,  his  words  humbled  and  awed  them  ;  and,  when  they 
were  depressed  by  groundless  fears,  he  sought  to  reanimate  their  con- 
fidence. Thus  Athens,  though  still  in  name  a  democracy,  was,  in  fact, 
ruled  by  her  greatest  citizen.  But  his  successors  were  more  on  an 
equality  with  one  another,  and,  each  one  struggling  to  be  first  himself, 
they  were  ready  to  sacrifice  the  whole  conduct  of  affairs  to  the  whims  of 
the  people. 

The  notes  that  we  have  made  for  extracts  from  Thucydides 
to  be  laid  before  our  readers,  almost  hopelessly  perplex  our 
choice.  For  we  must  needs  choose  in  a  most  Spartan  spirit 
of  hard-hearted  rejection.  (We  counsel  those  of  our  readers 
who  can  do  so,  to  read  the  whole  history.  Mr.  Jowett's 
translation  is  republished  here  —  without  the  notes,  useful 
only  to  scholars,  that  increase  the  cost  of  the  English  edition 
— Dr.  A.  P.  Peabody  introduces  it  with  a  brief  but  admirable 
essay.)  On  the  whole,  there  are  two  things  which  we  could 
never  forgive  ourselves  for  omitting,  and  to  these  two  things, 
with  many  suppressed  cries  of  regret  that  so  it  must  be,  we 
submit  to  limit  ourselves. 

The  first  of  these  two  things  is  the  account  of  the  Corcy- 
raean  Revolution.  Cor-cy'ra  (modern  Corfu)  was  an  island 
colony  from  Corinth  that  had  become  an  ally  of  Athens.  It 
was  a  highly  flourishing  place.  In  the  height  of  the 
Peloponnesian  war,  the  city  became  the  theatre  of  inter- 
nal dissensions,  which  grew  to  the  rank  of  revolution.  It 
was  a  strife  of  oligarchy  with  democracy,  the  oligarchi- 
cal interest,  of  course,  favoring  Sparta  and  opposing 
Athens.  The  presence,  or  the  imminence,  of  two  mutually 
hostile  fleets,  the  one  Athenian,  and  the  other  Spartan,  natu- 
rally intensified  the  passions  of  the  parties  in  strife.  When 
at  length  the  Spartan  fleet  had  apparently  withdrawn,  during 
an  interval  of  nine  days  while  the  Athenians  were  hovering 
near,  the  popular  faction  committed  every  species  of  vio- 
lence. Many  of  the  opposite  party  had  fled  to  sanctuary 
in  the  temple  of  He're  (Juno).     Some  fifty  of  these  were  in- 


Thuty  (tides.  73 


duced   to   come  out  and  stand  a  trial.     They  were  all  con- 
demned to  die.     Now  Thucydides  : 

The  majority  would  not  come  out,  and,  when  they  saw  what  was 
going  on,  destroyed  one  another  in  the  inclosure  of  the  temple  where 
they  were,  except  a  few,  who  hung  themselves  on  trees,  or  put  an  end  to 
their  own  lives  in  any  other  way  which  they  could.  And  during  the  seven 
days  which  Eu-rym'e-don,  after  his  arrival,  remained  with  his  sixty  ships, 
the  Corcyrseans  continued  slaughtering  those  of  their  fellow-citizens  whom 
they  deemed  their  enemies  ;  they  professed  to  punish  them  for  their 
designs  against  the  democracy,  but  in  fact  some  were  killed  for  motives 
of  personal  enmity,  and  some  because  money  was  owing  to  them,  by  the 
hands  of  their  debtors.  Every  form  of  death  was  to  be  seen,  and  every 
thing  and  more  than  every  thing  that  commonly  happens  in  revolutions, 
happened  then.  The  father  slew  the  son,  and  the  suppliants  were  torn 
from  the  temples  and  slain  near  them  ;  some  of  them  were  even  walled 
up  in  the  temple  of  Di-o-ny'sus,  and  there  perished.  To  such  extremes  of 
cruelty  did  revolution  go  ;  and  this  seemed  to  be  the  worst  of  revolu- 
tions, because  it  was  the  first. 

Following  this  brief  account  of  the  state  of  things  in 
Corcyra,  there  come  some  reflections  on  revolution  in  general 
which  illustrate  the  philosophizing  taste  and  capacity  of  the 
historian's  mind.     We  give  a  considerable  extract : 

Not  long  afterward  the  whole  Hellenic  world  was  in  commotion ; 
in  every  city  the  chiefs  of  the  democracy  and  of  the  oligarchy  were 
struggling,  the  one  to  bring  in  the  Athenians,  the  others  the  Lacedae- 
monians. Now,  in  time  of  peace,  men  would  have  had  no  excuse  for 
introducing  either,  and  no  desire  to  do  so,  but  when  they  were  at  war,  and 
both  sides  could  easily  obtain  allies  to  the  hurt  of  their  enemies  and  the 
advantage  of  themselves,  the  dissatisfied  party  were  only  too  ready  to 
invoke  foreign  aid.  And  revolution  brought  upon  the  cities  of  Hellas 
many  terrible  calamities,  such  as  have  been  and  always  will  be  while 
human  nature  remains  the  same,  but  which  are  more  or  less  aggravated 
and  differ  in  character  with  every  new  combination  of  circumstances. 
In  peace  and  prosperity  both  states  and  individuals  are  actuated  by 
high  motives,  because  they  do  not  fall  under  the  dominion  of  imperious 
necessities  ;  but  war  which  takes  away  the  comfortable  provision  of  daily 
life  is  a  hard  master,  and  tends  to  assimilate  men's  characters  to  their 
conditions. 

When  troubles  had  once  begun  in  the  cities,  those  who  followed  car- 
4 


74  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

ried  the  revolutionary  spirit  further  and  further,  and  determined  to  outdo 
the  report  of  all  who  had  preceded  them  by  the  ingenuity  of  their  enter- 
prises and  the  atrocity  of  their  revenges.  The  meaning  of  words  had 
no  longer  the  same  relation  to  things,  but  was  changed  by  them  as  they 
thought  proper.  Reckless  daring  was  held  to  be  loyal  courage  ;  prudent 
delay  was  the  excuse  of  a  coward  ;  moderation  was  the  disguise  of  un- 
manly weakness ;  to  know  every  thing  was  to  do  nothing.  Frantic 
energy  was  the  true  quality  of  a  man.  A  conspirator  who  wanted  to  be 
safe  was  a  recreant  in  disguise.  The  lover  of  violence  was  always 
trusted  and  his  opponent  suspected.  He  who  succeeded  in  a  plot  was 
deemed  knowing,  but  a  still  greater  master  in  craft  was  he  who  detected 
one.  On  the  other  hand,  he  who  plotted  from  the  first  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  plots,  was  a  breaker  up  of  parties  and  a  poltroon  who  was 
afraid  of  the  enemy.  In  a  word,  he  who  could  outstrip  another  in  a  bad 
action  was  applauded,  and  so  was  he  who  encouraged  to  evil  one  who 
had  no  idea  of  it.  The  tie  of  party  was  stronger  than  the  tie  of  blood, 
because  a  partisan  was  more  ready  to  dare  without  asking  why.   .  .  . 

The  cause  of  all  these  evils  was  the  love  of  power  originating  in 
avarice  and  ambition,  and  the  party  spirit  which  is  engendered  by  them 
when  men  were  fairly  embarked  in  a  contest.  For  the  leaders  on  either 
side  used  specious  names,  the  one  party  professing  to  uphold  the  con- 
stitutional equality  of  the  many,  the  other  the  wisdom  of  an  aristocracy, 
while  they  made  the  public  interests,  to  which  in  name  they  were 
devoted,  in  reality  their  prize.  Striving  in  every  way  to  overcome  each 
ether,  they  committed  the  most  monstrous  crimes  ;  yet  even  these  were 
surpassed  by  the  magnitude  of  their  revenges,  which  they  pursued  to  the 
very  utmost,  neither  party  observing  any  definite  limits  either  of  justice 
or  public  expediency,  but  both  alike  making  the  caprice  of  the  moment 
their  law.  Either  by  the  help  of  an  unrighteous  sentence,  or  grasping 
power  with  the  strong  hand,  they  were  eager  to  satiate  the  impatience 
of  party  spirit.  Neither  faction  cared  for  religion  ;  but  any  fair  pre- 
tense which  succeeded  in  effecting  some  odious  purpose  was  greatly 
lauded.  And  the  citizens  who  were  of  neither  party  fell  a  prey  to  both  ; 
either  they  were  disliked  because  they  held  aloof,  or  men  were  jealous 
of  their  surviving. 

Thus  revolution  gave  birth  to  every  form  of  wickedness  in  Hellas. 
The  simplicity,  which  is  so  large  an  element  in  a  noble  nature,  was 
laughed  to  scorn  and  disappeared.  An  attitude  of  perfidious  antago- 
nism everywhere  prevailed  ;  for  there  was  no  word  binding  enough,  nor 
oath  terrible  enough,  to  reconcile  enemies.  Each  man  was  strong  only 
in  the   conviction   that  nothing  was   secure;   he  must  look  to  his  own 


Thucydides.  75 


safety,  and  could  not  afford  to  trust  others.  Inferior  intellects  gener- 
ally succeeded  best.  For  aware  of  their  own  deficiencies,  and  fearing 
the  capacity  of  their  opponents,  for  whom  they  were  no  match  in  powers 
of  speech,  and  whose  subtle  wits  were  likely  to  anticipate  them  in  con- 
triving evil,  they  struck  boldly  and  at  once.  But  the  cleverer  sort,  pre- 
suming in  their  airogance  that  they  would  be  aware  in  time,  and  dis- 
daining to  act  when  they  could  think,  were  taken  off  their  guard  and 
easily  destroyed. 

Now  in  Corcyra  most  of  these  deeds  were  perpetrated,  and  for  the  first 
time.  .  .  .  When  men  are  retaliating  upon  others,  they  are  reckless  of 
the  future,  and  do  not  hesitate  to  annul  those  common  laws  of  humanity 
to  which  every  individual  trusts  for  his  own  hope  of  deliverance  should 
he  ever  be  overtaken  by  calamity ;  they  forget  that  in  their  own  hour 
of  need  they  will  look  for  them  in  vain. 

How  modern  that  seems !  But  how  lurid  it  is  !  One 
might  almost  imagine  himself  reading  some  other  than  Burke 
(not  a  wiser,  but  a  less  passionate  than  he)  in  reflections  on 
the  French  Revolution.  A  state  of  things  like  what  Thu- 
cvdides  here  describes,  the  forecast  of  Clay  and  Webster 
dreaded  for  this  American  nation,  when,  in  1850,  they  pro- 
vided those  compromises  of  national  policy  which  postponed 
imminent  civil  war  a  decade  of  years.  The  dreaded  state  of 
things  might  yet  indeed  have  come  upon  us  had  our  civil 
war  lasted,  when  it  came,  as  the  Peloponnesian  war  lasted. 

Our  next  extract  from  Thucydides  will  be  a  passage  of  his 
history  that,  besides  being  of  interest  for  illustration  of  the 
historian's  style  and  of  national  or  individual  character,  is 
also  of  interest  for  itself  as  describing  a  truly  remarkable 
incident  of  the  war.  We  refer  to  the  celebrated  Sicilian 
expedition.  This  enterprise  was  nothing  less  than  an  attempt 
on  the  part  of  Athens,  adventured  in  the  utmost  stress  of 
the  Peloponnesian  war,  to  capture  Syracuse  in  Sicily,  a  Greek 
city  nearly  as  populous  and  powerful  as  Athens  herself.  The 
magnificent  light-heartedness,  tempered  by  tears,  with  which 
the  undertaking  was  entered  upon,  the  inexhaustible  spirit 
with  which  through  various  fortune  it  was  prosecuted,  the 
approach  that  it  made  to  success,  failing  but  as  it  were  by  the 


76  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

breadth  of  a  hair,  and,  finally,  the  dreadful  disaster,  the 
remediless  overthrow,  fleet  and  army  annihilated,  with  which 
it  was  overwhelmed — all  this  Thucydides  recounts  in  a  nar- 
rative which  for  picturesqueness  and  pathos  and  power  it 
would  be  hard  to  overmatch  out  of  the  pages  of  any  historian, 
ancient  or  modern.  The  whole  transaction  seemed  more 
like  tragedy  than  like  history.  It  was  a  spectacle  to  wonder 
at  rather  than  to  believe  in — the  prowess  that  Athens  dis- 
played. One  beholding  it  might  more  easily  suppose  him- 
self looking  at  a  miracle  enacted  on  the  stage,  than  at  occur- 
rences taking  place  in  real  life.  It  is  not  surprising  that  for 
once  the  spell  of  reticence  is  broken  on  the  lips  of  Thucyd- 
ides. In  a  passage  unique  in  his  history,  this  self-contained 
historian  says : 

Athens  was  obliged  to  import  every  thing  from  abroad,  and  resembled 
a  fort  rather  than  a  city.  In  the  day-time  the  citizens  guarded  the  bat- 
tlements by  relays  ;  during  the  night  every  man  was  on  service  except 
the  cavalry  ;  some  at  their  places  of  arms,  others  on  the  wall,  summer 
and  winter  alike,  until  they  were  quite  worn  out.  But  worse  than  all 
was  the  cruel  necessity  of  maintaining  two  wars  at  once,  and  they  car- 
ried on  both  with  a  determination  which  no  one  would  have  believed 
unless  he  had  actually  seen  it.  That,  blockaded  as  they  v/ere  by  the 
Peloponnesians,  who  had  raised  a  fort  in  their  country,  they  should 
refuse  to  let  go  Sicily,  and,  themselves  besieged,  persevere  in  the  siege 
of  Syracuse,  which  as  a  mere  city,  might  rank  with  Athens,  and — 
whereas  the  Hellenes  generally  were  expecting  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  some  that  they  would  survive  a  year,  others  two  or  perhaps  three 
years,  certainly  not  more,  if  the  Peloponnesians  invaded  Attica — that  in 
the  seventeenth  year  from  the  first  invasion,  after  so  exhausting  a  strug- 
gle, the  Athenians  should  have  been  strong  enough  and  bold  enough  to 
go  to  Sicily  at  all,  and  to  plunge  into  a  fresh  war  as  great  as  that  in 
which  they  were  already  engaged — how  contrary  was  all  this  to  the 
expectation  of  mankind ! 

The  Athenian  Nic'i-as,  whom,  slow,  conservative,  timid, 
the  readers  of  that  charming  book  of  heroic  romance,  Plu- 
tarch's Lives,  will  remember  in  contrast  with  the  dashing,  and 
brilliant,  and  profligate  Alcibiades,  had  begged  the  Athenian 


Thucydtdes»  77 


assembly  to  ponder  well  the  perils  of  the  project  before  they 
undertook  it.  But  Alcibiades,  with  the  ardor  of  irresponsible 
unscrupulous  youth,  urged  them  on,  and  prevailed.  Thu- 
cydides  says  : 

All  alike  were  seized  with  a  passionate  desire  to  sail,  the  elder  among 
them  convinced  that  they  would  achieve  the  conquest  of  Sicily — at  any 
rate  such  an  armament  could  suffer  no  disaster;  the  youth  were  longing 
to  see  with  their  own  eyes  the  marvels  of  a  distant  land,  and  were  con- 
fident of  a  safe  return  ;  the  main  body  of  the  troops  expected  to  receive 
present  pay,  and  to  conquer  a  country  which  would  be  an  inexhaustible 
mine  of  pay  for  the  future.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  majority  was  so 
overwhelming  that,  although  some  disapproved,  they  were  afraid  of 
being  thought  unpatriotic  if  they  voted  on  the  other  side,  and  therefore 
held  their  peace. 

An  omen,  or  what  the  Athenians  were  disposed  to  regard 
as  an  omen,  occurred.  Thucydides  seems  to  separate  him- 
self from  his  countrymen,  in  relating  the  circumstance  disin- 
terestedly as  follows : 

While  they  were  in  the  midst  of  their  preparations  the  Her'mae  or 
square  stone  figures  carved  after  the  ancient  Athenian  fashion,  and 
standing  everywhere  at  the  door-ways  both  of  temples  and  private 
houses,  in  one  night  had  nearly  all  of  them  throughout  the  city  their 
faces  mutilated.  The  offenders  were  not  known,  but  great  rewards  were 
publicly  offered  for  their  detection,  and  a  decree  was  passed  that  any 
one,  whether  citizen,  stranger,  or  slave,  might  without  fear  of  punish- 
ment disclose  this  or  any  other  profanation  of  which  he  was  cognizant. 
The  Athenians  took  the  matter  greatly  to  heart — it  seemed  to  them 
ominous  of  the  fate  of  the  expedition  ;  and  they  ascribed  it  to  conspira- 
tors who  wanted  to  effect  a  revolution  and  to  overthrow  the  democracy. 

The  actual  setting  out  is  thus  described  : 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  appointed  for  their  departure,  the 
Athenians  and  such  of  their  allies  as  had  already  joined  them  went 
down  to  the  Piraeus  and  began  to  man  the  ships.  The  entire  population 
of  Athens  accompanied  them,  citizens  and  strangers  alike.  The  citizens 
came  to  take  farewell,  one  of  an  acquaintance,  another  of  a  kinsman, 
another  of  a  son  ;  the  crowd  as  they  passed  along  were  full  of  hope  and 
full    of  tears,  hope  of  conquering  Sicily,   tears  because   they   doubted 


78  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

whether  they  would  ever  see  their  friends  again,  when  they  thought  of 
the  long  voyage  on  which  they  were  sending  them.  At  the  moment  of 
parting  the  danger  was  nearer;  and  terrors  which  had  never  occurred  to 
them  when  they  were  voting  the  expedition  now  entered  into  their 
souls.  Nevertheless  their  spirits  revived  at  the  sight  of  the  armament 
in  all  its  strength  and  of  the  abundant  provision  which  they  had  made. 
The  strangers  and  the  rest  of  the  multitude  came  out  of  curiosity, 
desiring  to  witness  an  enterprise  of  which  the  greatness  exceeded  belief. 

No  armament  so  magnificent  or  costly  had  ever  been  sent  out  by  any 
single  Hellenic  power.  .  .  .  On  the  fleet  the  greatest  pains  and  ex- 
pense had  been  lavished  by  the  trierarchs  and  the  state.  The  public 
treasury  gave  a  drachma  a  day  to  each  sailor,  and  furnished  empty 
hulls  for  sixty  swift  sailing  vessels,  and  for  forty  transports  canying 
hoplites.  All  these  were  manned  with  the  best  crews  which  could  be 
obtained.  The  trierarchs,  besides  the  pay  given  by  the  state,  added 
somewhat  more  out  of  their  own  means  to  the  wages  of  the  upper  ranks 
of  rowers  and  of  the  petty  officers.  The  figure-heads  and  other  fittings 
provided  by  them  were  of  the  most  costly  description.  Every  one  strove 
to  the  utmost  that  his  own  ship  might  excel  both  in  beauty  and  swiftness. 
The  infantry  had  been  well  selected  and  the  lists  carefully  made  up. 
There  was  the  keenest  rivalry  among  the  soldiers  in  the  matter  of  arms 
and  personal  equipment.  And  while  at  home  the  Athenians  were  thus 
competing  with  one  another  in  the  performance  of  their  several  duties, 
to  the  rest  of  Hellas  the  expedition  seemed  to  be  a  grand  display  of 
their  power  and  greatness,  rather  than  a  preparation  for  war.  .  .  . 
Men  were  quite  amazed  at  the  boldness  of  the  scheme  and  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  spectacle,  which  were  everywhere  spoken  of,  no  less 
than  at  the  great  disproportion  of  the  force  when  compared  with  that  of 
the  enemy  against  whom  it  was  intended.  Never  had  a  greater  expedi- 
tion been  sent  to  a  foreign  land  ;  never  was  there  an  enterprise  in  which 
the  hope  of  future  success  seemed  to  be  better  justified  by  actual  power. 

When  the  ships  were  manned  and  every  thing  required  for  the  voyage 
had  been  placed  on  board,  silence  was  proclaimed  by  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet,  and  all  with  one  voice  before  setting  sail  offered  up  the  custom- 
ary prayers;  these  were  recited,  not  in  each  ship,  but  by  a  single  herald, 
the  whole  fleet  accompanying  him.  On  every  deck  both  officers  and 
men,  mingling  wine  in  bowls,  made  libations  from  vessels  of  gold  and 
silver.  The  multitude  of  citizens  and  other  well-wishers  who  were  look- 
ing on  from  the  land  joined  in  the  prayer.  The  crews  raised  the  Paean, 
and  when  the  libations  were  completed  put  to  sea.  After  sailing  out 
for  some  distance  in  single  file,  the  ships  raced  with  one  another  as  far 


Thucydides.  79 


as  ^-gi'na:  thence  they  hastened  onward  to  Corcyra,  where  the  allies 
who  formed  the  rest  of  the  army  were  assembling. 

It  will  be  impossible  to  detail,  even  in  a  summary  manner, 
the  incidents  of  the  struggle  at  Syracuse.  The  success  of 
the  Athenians  depended  upon  their  being  able  to  complete 
an  investment  of  the  city.  Already  the  Syracusan  assembly 
were  on  the  point  of  discussing  the  question  of  a  capitula- 
tion, when  Gylippus,  a  Lacedaemonian  general,  approached 
with  succour  for  the  besieged.     Thucydides  : 

He  arrived  just  at  the  time  when  the  Athenians  had  all  but  finished 
their  double  wall,  nearly  a  mile  long,  reaching  to  the  Great  Harbor  ; 
there  remained  only  a  small  portion  toward  the  sea,  upon  which  they 
were  still  at  work.  Along  the  remainder  of  the  line  of  wall,  which 
extended  toward  Trogilus  [Troj'i-lus]  and  the  northern  sea,  the  stones 
were  mostly  lying  ready ;  a  part  was  half-finished,  a  part  had  been 
completed  and  left.     So  near  was  Syracuse  to  destruction. 

The  end  came.  First  there  was  a  sea-fight  in  which  the 
Athenian  fleet  was  disastrously  defeated.  So  broken  now 
in  spirit  were  the  invaders  that,  not  even  for  the  purpose 
of  seeking  to  escape,  could  they  be  prevailed  upon  to  re- 
embark  in  the  vessels  that  remained  to  them.  A  retreat 
by  land  was  resolved  upon.  The  contrast  between  the  end 
of  the  expedition  and  that  holiday  picnicking  commencement 
of  it  which  Thucydides  described,  is  incomparably  striking 
and  pathetic.     Thucydides  : 

On  the  third  day  after  the  sea-fight,  when  Nicias  and  Demosthenes 
thought  that  their  preparations  were  complete,  the  army  began  to  move. 
They  were  in  a  dreadful  condition  ;  not  only  was  there  the  great  fact 
that  they  had  lost  their  whole  fleet,  and  instead  of  their  expected  triumph 
had  brought  the  utmost  peril  upon  Athens  as  well  as  upon  themselves, 
but  also  the  sights  which  presented  themselves  as  they  quitted  the  camp 
were  painful  to  every  eye  and  mind.  The  dead  were  unburied,  and 
when  any  one  saw  the  body  of  a  friend  lying  on  the  ground  he  was 
smitten  with  sorrow  and  dread,  while  the  sick  or  wounded  who  still 
survived  but  had  to  be  left  were  even  a  greater  trial  to  the  living  and 
more  to  be  pitied  than  those  who  were  gone.  Their  prayers  and  lamen- 
tations drove  their  companions  to  distraction  ;  they  would  beg  that  they 


8o  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

might  be  taken  with  them,  and  call  by  name  any  friend  or  relation 
whom  they  saw  passing  ;  they  would  hang  upon  their  departing  comrades 
and  follow  as  far  as  they  could,  and  when  their  limbs  and  strength 
failed  them  and  they  dropped  behind  many  were  the  imprecations  and 
cries  which  they  uttered.  So  that  the  whole  army  was  in  tears,  and 
such  was  their  despair  that  they  could  hardly  make  up  their  minds  to 
stir,  although  they  were  leaving  an  enemy's  country,  having  suffered 
calamities  too  great  for  tears  already,  and  dreading  miseries  yet  greater 
in  the  unknown  future.  There  was  also  a  general  feeling  of  shame  and 
self-reproach — indeed,  they  seemed,  not  like  an  army,  but  like  the  fugi- 
tive population  of  a  city  captured  after  a  siege  ;  and  of  a  great  city  too. 
For  the  whole  multitude  who  were  marching  together  numbered  not 
less  than  forty  thousand.  Each  of  them  took  with  him  any  thing  he 
could  carry  which  was  likely  to  be  of  use.  Even  the  heavy-armed  and 
cavalry,  contraiy  to  their  practice  when  under  arms,  conveyed  about 
their  persons  their  own  food,  some  because  they  had  no  attendants, 
others  because  they  could  not  trust  them  ;  for  they  had  long  been  desert- 
ing, and  most  of  them  had  gone  off  all  at  once.  Nor  was  the  food 
which  they  carried  sufficient  ;  for  the  supplies  of  the  camp  had  failed. 
Their  disgrace  and  the  universality  of  the  misery,  although  there  might 
be  some  consolation  in  the  very  community  of  suffering,  was  nevertheless  at 
that  moment  hard  to  bear,  especially  when  they  remembered  from  what 
pomp  and  splendor  they  had  fallen  into  their  present  low  estate.  Never 
had  an  Hellenic  army  experienced  such  a  reverse.  They  had  come 
intending  to  enslave  others,  and  they  were  going  away  in  fear  lest  they 
would  be  themselves  enslaved.  Instead  of  the  prayers  and  hymns 
with  which  they  had  put  to  sea,  they  were  now  departing  amid  appeals 
to  heaven  of  another  sort.  They  were  no  longer  sailors  but  lands- 
men, depending,  not  upon  their  fleet,  but  upon  their  infantry.  Yet  in 
face  of  the  great  danger  which  still  threatened  them  all  these  things 
appeared  endurable. 

Nicias  exhorted  the  wretched  troops  with  noble  spirit. 
The  key  in  which,  according  to  Thucydides,  this  invalid 
general  spoke  to  his  men  is  given  in  the  following  two 
sentences  at  the  close  of  his  harangue  : 

If  you  now  escape  your  enemies,  those  of  you  who  are  not  Athenians 
may  see  once  more  the  home  for  which  they  long,  while  you  Athenians 
will  again  rear  aloft  the  fallen  greatness  of  Athens.  For  men,  and  not 
walls  or  ships  in  which  are  no  men,  constitute  a  state. 


Thucydides.  8i 


The  last  sentence  foregoing  reads  like  the  original  of  a 
passage  in  a  well-known  English  poem;  but  it  is  perhaps 
itself  from  an  original  in  Greek  poetry,  older  than  Thu- 
cydides. The  English  poem  to  which  we  refer  is  Sir 
William  Jones's  Ode  in  Imitation  of  Alcseus.  The  imi- 
tative character  of  that  poem  associates  it  so  naturally  with 
the  general  subject  of  the  present  volume,  that  we  may 
quote  a  few  lines  of  it  here,  in  parallel  to  Thucydides  report- 
ing Nicias  : 

What  constitutes  a  state? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned. 

No  !  men,  high-minded  men. 

These  constitute  a  state. 

High  heart  did  not  avail.  The  retreating  Athenian  army 
suffered  every  hardship  and  melted  rapidly  away.  Reaching 
a  river  under  close  pursuit,  they  hoped  to  secure  a  little 
respite.  The  respite  they  actually  secured  is  thus  described 
by  Thucydides  : 

Being  compelled  to  keep  close  together  they  fell  one  upon  another, 
and  trampled  each  other  under  foot :  some  at  once  perished,  pierced  by 
their  own  spears  ;  others  got  entangled  in  the  baggage  and  were  carried 
down  the  stream.  The  Syracusans  stood  upon  the  farther  bank  of  the 
river, which  was  steep,  and  hurled  missiles  from  above  on  the  Athenians, 
who  were  huddled  together  in  the  deep  bed  of  the  stream  and  for  the 
most  part  were  drinking  greedily.  The  Peloponnesians  came  down  the 
bank  and  slaughtered  them,  falling  chiefly  upon  those  who  were  in  the 
river.  Whereupon  the  water  at  once  became  foul,  but  was  drank  all  the 
same,  although  muddy  and  dyed  with  blood,  and  the  crowd  fought  for  it. 

At  last,  when  the  dead  bodies  were  lying  in  heaps  one  upon  another 
in  the  water,  and  the  army  was  utterly  undone,  some  perishing  in  the 
river,  and  any  who  escaped  being  cut  off  by  the  cavalry,  Nicias  sur- 
rendered to  Gylippus,  in  whom  he  had  more  confidence  than  in  the 
Syracusans.  He  entreated  him  and  the  Lacedaemonians  to  do  what  they 
pleased  with  himself,  but  not  to  go  on  killing  the  men. 
4* 


82  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

What  they  pleased  to  do  with  Nicias  was  to  put  him  to 
death.  "  No  one  of  the  Hellenes  in  my  time  was  less  deserv- 
ing of  so  miserable  an  end ;  for  he  lived  in  the  practice  of 
every  virtue."  So,  with  frugally  expressed,  but  not  frugal, 
praise  Thucydides  dismissed  Nicias. 

The  fate  of  the  rank  and  file  of  the  surrendered  army  was 
more  lingering,  but  not  less  dreadful.     Thucydides  : 

The  captive  Athenians  and  allies  they  deposited  in  the  quarries, 
which  they  thought  would  be  the  safest  place  of  confinement. 

Those  who  were  imprisoned  in  the  quarries  were  at  the  beginning  of 
their  captivity  harshly  treated  by  the  Syracusans.  There  were  great 
numbers  of  them,  and  they  were  crowded  in  a  deep  and  narrow  place. 
At  first  the  sun  by  day  was  still  scorching  and  sufibcating,  for  they  had 
no  roof  over  their  heads,  while  the  autumn  nights  were  cold,  and  the 
extremes  of  temperature  engendered  violent  disorders.  Being  cramped 
for  room  they  had  to  do  every  thing  on  the  same  spot.  The  corpses  of 
those  who  died  from  their  wounds,  exposure  to  the  weather,  and  the  like, 
lay  heaped  one  upon  another.  The  smells  were  intolerable  ;  and  they 
were  at  the  same  time  afflicted  by  hunger  and  thirst.  During  eight 
months  they  were  allowed  only  about  half  a  pint  of  water  and  a  pint 
of  food  a  day.  Every  kind  of  miseiy  which  could  befall  man  in  such  a 
place  befell  them.  This  was  the  condition  of  all  the  captives  for  about 
ten  weeks.  At  length  the  Syracusans  sold  them,  with  the  exception  of 
the  Athenians  and  of  any  Sicilians  or  Italian  Greeks  who  had  sided 
with  them  in  the  war.  The  whole  number  of  the  public  prisoners  is 
not  accurately  known,  but  they  were  not  less  than  seven  thousand. 

Of  all  the  Hellenic  actions  which  took  place  in  this  war,  or  indeed  of 
all  the  Hellenic  actions  which  are  on  record,  this  was  the  greatest — the 
most  glorious  to  the  victors,  the  most  ruinous  to  the  vanquished  ;  for 
they  were  utterly  and  at  all  points  defeated,  and  their  sufiferings  were 
prodigious.  Fleet  and  army  perished  from  the  face  of  the  earth  ; 
nothing  was  saved,  and  of  the  many  who  went  forth  few  returned  home. 

Thus  ended  the  Sicilian  expedition. 

And  thus  shall  end  our  presentation  of  Thucydides. 


Plato, 


83 


PHILOSOPHY 


IV. 
PLATO 

We  go  from  history  to  philosophy.  It  is  a  marked  transi- 
tion. But  the  change,  we  trust,  will  be 
grateful  to  our  readers.  If  to  any 
among  them  this  should  not  be  the 
case,  let  such  consider  two  things  fitted 
to  smooth  the  present  transition,  name- 
ly, first,  that  Thucydides  was  some- 
thing of  a  philosopher  in  his  history; 
and,  secondly,  that  Plato  may  fairly 
be  made  something  of  an  historian  in 
his  philosphy.  For  is  not  history,  ac- 
cording to  Carlyle,  the  essence  of  in- 
numerable biographies?  And  Plato 
shall  serve  in  great  part  as  biographer 
of  Socrates. 

Socrates  is  not  more  easily  foremost  among  Greek  philoso- 
phers, than  is  Plato  foremost  among  Greek  philosophical 
writers.  This  distinction,  of  philosopher  and  philosophical 
writer,  it  is  necessary  in  the  present  case  to  make,  for  the 
reason  that  Socrates,  as  our  readers  will  not  need  to  be  re- 
minded, did  his  whole  work  in  the  intellectual  world  with 
use  of  tongue  alone,  never  once  publishing  a  written  word. 
Foremost  of  Greek  philosophical  writers,  we  have  not  hesi- 
tated to  pronounce  Plato.  But  we  think  of  Plato's  illustri- 
ous disciple,  Aristotle,  and  we  are  almost  ready  to  say  that 
were  the  terms  of  the  question  only  a  little  changed — were 
we  to  decide,  not  which  of  the  two  was  the  greater  philo- 


84  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

sophical  writer,  but  which  was  the  greater  philosophical 
genius,  we  should  need  to  pause  and  to  hesitate.  While  to 
Plato,  however,  philosophy  was  the  one  exclusive  pursuit  of 
his  intellectual  life,  philosophy  was  simply  one  of  various 
intellectual  pursuits  to  Aristotle.  Poet  as  well  as  philoso- 
pher— poet  more  than  philosopher,  some  might  be  tempted 
to  say — was  Plato.  But  he  wrote  his  poetry  in  the  form  of 
philosophy.  Aristotle,  besides  being  a  philosopher,  was  a 
kind  of  encyclopaedist.  He  by  no  means,  like  Plato,  gave 
his  literary  production  always  the  one  form  of  philosophy  so- 
called.  We  should  not,  perhaps,  go  much  amiss  to  say  that 
Aristotle's  chief  motive,  even  in  literature,  was  scientific  and 
practical,  while  Plato's  chief  motive,  even  in  philosophy,  was 
literary  and  poetical. 

Plato  is  a  voluminous  writer.  And  he  enjoys  the  fortune, 
singular  among  ancient  classical  authors,  to  survive  in  all 
his  works.  In  fact  he  may  in  a  sense  be  said  to  survive  in 
more  than  all  his  works  ;  for  many  works  have  come  down  to 
us  bearing  Plato's  name,  that  Plato  never  wrote.  The  critics 
differ  greatly  among  themselves  on  the  question  of  the  gen- 
uineness of  various  works  attributed  to  the  hand  of  Plato. 
We  shall  not  trouble  our  readers  with  any  details  of  the 
controversies  that  on  this  point  have,  from  very  early  times 
down  to  the  present,  well-nigh  literally  raged  among  schol- 
ars. In  a  case  in  which  authorities  so  eminent,  and  so 
evenly  mated  in  eminence,  as  Grote  and  Jowett,  arrive  at 
conclusions  so  divergent,  one  may  wisely  make  up  one's 
mind  to  be  content  with  something  short  of  absolute  cer- 
tainty. Happily  as  to  all  those  works  ascribed  to  Plato, 
which  we  in  any  case  should  wish  to  lay  before  our  readers, 
there  is  universal  agreement. 

We  need  not  even  mention  by  title  the  productions,  a  long 
list,  that  editors  of  Plato's  text  usually  print  as  belonging  to 
their  author.  The  titles,  being  most  of  them  names  of  per- 
sons, are  generally  not  at  all  significant  of  the  nature  of  the 


Plato.  85 

works  entitled.  Among  the  most  important  may  be  men- 
tioned the  Republic — with  the  Timaeus — the  Laws,  the  Sym- 
posium, or  Banquet,  the  Phaedrus,  the  Gorgias,  the  The-ae-te'- 
tus,  the  Pro-tag'o-ras,  the  Par-men'i-des  ;  and,  finally,  a  group 
of  five  pieces  relating  more  or  less  closely  to  the  trial  and 
the  death  of  Socrates,  namely,  the  Me'no,  the  Eu-thyph'rus, 
the  Apology,  the  Crito,  and  the  Phaedo.  Of  these  works, 
the  Apology  is  the  only  one  not  cast  in  conversational  form, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  Apology  too  is  in  a  high  degree  conver- 
sational. There  is,  however,  a  difference  observable  among 
these.  Into  some  of  the  dialogues  the  dramatic  element 
enters  more  largely  than  it  does  into  others.  In  the  Laws, 
for  example,  a  work  of  Plato's  old  age,  you  find  long  stretches 
of  disquisition  not  interrupted  at  all  with  exchange  of  ques- 
tion and  answer.  The  purely  philosophic  interest,  where 
that  preponderates  with  him,  inclines  the  author  to  mono- 
logue ;  but  where  the  literary  interest  prevails,  there  is  much 
vivacious  exhibition  of  character  in  well-imagined  incident 
and  well-invented  conversation. 

The  Republic  is,  with  one  exception, (the  Laws,)  the  largest, 
and  it  is,  without  exception,  the  greatest,  of  Plato's  produc- 
tions. It  is  named  from  an  episode  in  it.  The  impropriety 
of  the  naming  is  less  gross  than  might  seem,  for  the  episode 
is  so  long  that  it  threatens  to  absorb  the  whole  work.  If, 
according  to  the  title,  the  Republic  ought  primarily  to  give 
us  the  writer's  ideal  of  the  state,  incidentally,  in  Plato's 
ample  way  of  treating  his  subject,  it  does,  in  fact,  give  us  his 
ideas  and  speculations  on  a  wide  range  of  topics.  Of  these, 
education  is  one.  Plato  is  beforehand  with  all  other  writers 
on  this  theme.  The  reader  is  pleased  and  surprised  to  find 
Herbert  Spencer,  for  example,  anticipated  by  Plato  in  one 
of  the  most  striking  and  most  influential  of  the  modern 
author's  thoughts  on  method  in  education,  as  follows :  "A 
freeman  ought  to  be  a  freeman  in  the  acquisition  of  knowl- 
edge. .   .   .  Knowledge  acquired  under  compulsion  has  no 


86  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

hold  on  the  mind.  .  .  .  Let  early  education  be  a  sort  of 
amusement."  The  influence  exerted  by  Plato's  Republic  to 
fructify  many  generations  of  minds,  may  be  estimated  when 
it  is  recalled  that  Cicero's  De  Republica,  St.  Augustine's  City 
of  God,  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia,  Bacon's  New  Atlantis, 
not  to  mention  any  thing  more  recent,  have  been  the  fruit, 
direct  or  indirect,  of  this  great  Greek  original.  The  divining 
prescience  of  Plato's  genius  and  imagination  caught  sight 
from  afar  of  some  of  the  very  latest  phases  of  modern  thought. 
Read  the  Republic  and  you  will  encounter  suggestions  of  the 
division  of  labor,  the  oneness  of  all  knowledge,  the  universal 
reign  of  law,  the  equality  of  woman  with  man.  We  are 
bound,  however,  to  add,  that  in  order  to  reach  oases,  fresh 
and  fair,  of  what  will  seem  to  you  really  valuable  contribu- 
tions to  intellectual  wealth,  you  will  have  to  traverse  wide 
encompassing  wastes  of  about  as  barren  speculation  and  re- 
fining, as  are  anywhere  to  be  found  in  the  world  of  literature. 

Of  Plato's  Republic  we  shall  not  undertake  here  to  give  an 
exhaustive  account.  We  think  we  can  serve  our  readers 
better.  It  is,  as  we  set  out  with  intimating,  our  plan  to  make 
our  reproduction  of  Plato  centre  chiefly  about  the  person  of 
Socrates.  Indeed,  in  any  just  representation  of  Plato,  Soc- 
rates could  not  but  be  a  very  conspicuous  figure.  Plato  gives 
his  master  the  chief  part  in  nearly  every  one  of  his  dialogues, 
and  some  of  his  dialogues  he  puts  wholly  into  his  master's 
mouth,  by  making  Socrates  speak  throughout,  reporting,  to 
select  friends  of  his,  conversations  that  he  has  somewhere 
held  with  persons  perhaps  casually  encountered  by  him  in 
the  streets  of  Athens,  or  between  Athens  and  the  Piraeus. 
This  latter  is  the  case  with  the  Republic.  The  properly,  the 
characteristically,  Socratic  element  is,  however,  present  in 
very  different  degrees  in  different  dialogues. 

Vain  were  it  to  seek  the  construction  of  any  orderly  phil- 
osophical system  out  of  the  writings  of  Plato.  His  period  of 
intellectual  productiveness  covered  many  years,  in  the  course 


Plato.  87 

of  which  his  mind  made  progress,  from  stage  to  stage  reach- 
ing opinions  not  entirely  consistent  with  opinions  that  had 
preceded  them,  or  with  opinions  that  might  follow  them. 
The  chronological  order  of  production  for  the  dialogues  it  is, 
in  most  instances,  impossible  to  determine.  In  a  state  of  the 
case  such  as  this,  evidently  we  may  proceed  with  all  freedom, 
following  any  order  of  treatment  that  we  choose.  This,  until 
we  reach  those  dialogues  which  concern  the  trial  and  the 
death  of  Socrates.  Then  we  shall  do  best  to  hit  as  nearly  as 
we  can  the  chronological  order  determined  by  the  relation 
that  each  dialogue  self-evidently  bears  to  the  closing  events 
of  the  great  philosopher's  life. 

From  the  Republic  we  first  take,  for  illustration  of  the  art 
with  which  Plato  enlivens  and  garnishes  the  text  of  what  had 
else  been  somewhat  tedious  and  bare  dialectical  dialogue,  the 
following  pretty  fable,  attributed  by  him  to  tradition. 
Readers  will  be  glad  to  see  the  true  original  of  a  legend  with 
which,  through  allusion  encountered  in  literature,  they  will 
already  perhaps  have  become  familiar.  Gy'ges,  (soft  G,) 
who  figures  in  this  tale  from  Plato,  figures  also  in  the  popu- 
lous page  of  Herodotus.  Indeed,  Herodotus  tells  of  him, 
with  some  important  variations,  this  identical  story.  The 
feature  of  the  ring  is  peculiar  to  Plato.  Along  with  the  fable 
itself,  we  give  enough  of  the  setting  of  the  fable  to  show  with 
what  illustrative  purpose  the  fable  was  used  by  the  speaker  in 
Plato's  dialogue.  Glaucon  is  the  speaker.  He  undertakes 
to  set  forth,  for  Socrates  to  overthrow  it,  a  notion  which  he 
avers  to  be  current  and  accepted  among  men,  namely,  the 
notion  that  injustice  is  better  policy  than  justice.  Men  prac- 
tice justice,  Glaucon  says,  only  where  they  cannot  success- 
fully practice  injustice.  Make  them  free  to  do  as  they  please, 
and  they  will  please  to  be  unjust.  Here  is  his  argument,  in 
the  words  of  Plato  : 

The  liberty  which   we  are   supposing  may   be  most    conveniently 
given   to  them  in   the  form   of  such '  a    power   as  is  said   to    have 


88  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

been  possessed  by  Gyges,  the  ancestor  of  Crcesus,  the  Lydian.  For 
Gyges,  according  to  the  tradition,  was  a  shepherd  and  servant  of  the 
king  of  Lydia,  and,  while  he  was  in  the  field,  there  was  a  storm  and 
earthquake,  which  made  an  opening  in  the  earth  at  the  place  where  he 
was  feeding  his  flock.  He  was  amazed  at  the  sight,  and  descended  into 
the  opening,  where,  among  other  marvels,  he  beheld  a  hollow  brazen 
horse,  having  doors,  at  which  he  stooping  and  looking  in  saw  a  dead 
body,  of  stature,  as  appeared  to  him,  more  than  human,  andhaving 
nothing  on  but  a  gold  ring  ;  this  he  took  from  the  finger  of  the  dead, 
and  reascended  out  of  the  opening.  Now  the  shepherds  met  together, 
according  to  custom,  that  they  might  send  their  monthly  report  concern- 
ing the  flock  to  the  king ;  and  into  their  assembly  he  came  having  the 
ring  on  his  finger,  and  as  he  was  sitting  among  them  he  chanced  to  turn 
the  collet  of  the  ring  toward  the  inner  side  of  the  hand,  when  instantly 
he  became  invisible,  and  the  others  began  to  speak  of  him  as  if  he  were 
no  longer  there.  He  was  astonished  at  this,  and  again  touching  the 
ring  he  turned  the  collet  outward  and  reappeared  ;  thereupon  he  made 
trials  of  the  ring,  and  always  with  the  same  result ;  when  he  turned  the 
collet  inward  he  became  invisible,  when  outward  he  reappeared.  Per- 
ceiving this,  he  immediately  contrived  to  be  chosen  messenger  to  the 
court,  where  he  no  sooner  arrived  than  he  seduced  the  queen,  and  with 
her  help  conspired  against  the  king,  and  slew  him,  and  took  the  king- 
dom. Suppose  now  that  there  were  two  such  magic  rings,  and  the  just 
put  on  one  of  them,  and  the  unjust  the  other ;  no  man  is  of  such  ada- 
mantine temper  that  he  would  stand  fast  in  justice, — that  is  what  they 
think.  No  man  would  dare  to  be  honest  when  he  could  safely 
take  what  he  liked  out  of  the  market,  or  go  into  houses  and  lie  with 
any  one  at  his  pleasure,  or  kill  or  release  from  prison  whom  he  would, 
and  in  all  respects  be  like  a  god  among  men.  Then  the  actions  of  the 
just  would  be  as  the  actions  of  the  unjust  ;  just  or  unjust  would  arrive 
at  last  at  the  same  goal.  And  this  is  surely  a  great  proof  that  a  man  is 
just,  not  willingly  or  because  he  thinks  that  justice  is  any  good  to  him 
individually,  but  of  necessity,  for  wherever  any  one  thinks  that  he  can 
safely  be  unjust,  there  he  is  unjust.  For  all  men  believe  in  their  hearts 
that  injustice  is  far  more  profitable  to  the  individual  than  justice,  and 
he  who  takes  this  line  of  argument  will  say  that  they  are  right.  For  if 
you  could  imagine  any  one  having  such  a  power,  and  never  doing  any 
wrong  or  touching  what  was  another's,  he  would  be  thought  by  the 
lookers  on  to  be  a  most  wretched  idiot,  although  they  would  praise  him 
to  one  another's  faces,  and  keep  up  appearances  with  one  another  from 
a  fear  that  they  too  might  be  suff"erers  of  injustice.    Enough  of  this. 


Plato.  89 


"  Enough  of  this,"  says  Plato's  speaker,  and  enough  surely, 
say  we,  at  least  for  the  purpose  of  showing  the  lamentable 
standard  of  ethics  that  must  have  prevailed  in  antiquity.  In 
close  connection  with  the  foregoing  passage  occurs  another 
passage  worth  quoting.  Glaucon  still  speaks.  He  tells  Soc- 
rates that  the  "  eulogists  of  injustice,"  that  is  to  say,  men  in 
general — for  men  in  general  according  to  this  witness,  what- 
ever may  be  the  strain  of  their  talk,  really  act  on  the  principle 
that  injustice  is  better  than  justice — men  in  general,  holds 
Glaucon,  would  expect  for  the  ideally  just  person — what  fort- 
une in  the  world  do  you  suppose?  Why,  nothing  less  than 
this  :  "  He  will  be  scourged,  racked,  bound,  will  have  his  eyes 
burnt  out,  and  at  last,  after  suffering  every  kind  of  evil,  he  will 
be  impaled."  Language  strangely  approaching  the  truth  of 
what  did  indeed  befall  the  historical  Just  Man  !  No  won- 
der one  sometimes  sees  it  quoted  as  a  marvelous  quasi-pro- 
phetic expression  from  the  lips  of  Socrates.  Mark,  however, 
Socrates  does  not  himself  use  this  language  at  all,  nor  is  this 
language  by  any  one  used  to  describe,  as  it  were  in  prophecy, 
what  in  the  corrupted  currents  of  the  world  the  wholly  just 
man,  should  such  a  one  appear,  would  suffer.  It  is  simply 
hyperbole  for  expressing  the  instinctive  belief  of  mankind 
that  justice  here  has  to  go  to  the  wall — the  inference  being 
that  it  is  a  mistake  to  be  just.  This  utterance,  it  will  thus 
be  seen,  is  not  well  quoted  to  exemplify  the  deep  divination 
of  Socrates  in  matters  of  morals.  It  is  not  deep  divination — 
whosever  it  is;  and  it  is  not  Socrates's — whatever  it  is. 
There  is  a  curious  coincidence,  and  that  is  the  whole  of  it. 

We  are  so  close  just  here  upon  the  unexpected  transition 
by  which  Plato  makes  Socrates  conduct  his  dialogue  across 
to  its  ostensible  subject,  namely,  the  Ideal  State,  that  we 
must  show  our  readers  how  the  thing  is  managed.  A  whole 
book,  (the  Republic,  one  dialogue,  is  divided  into  ten  books, 
this  division  being,  however,  not  the  author's,  but  some 
ancient  editor's,)  a  whole  book  has  been  occupied  with  re- 


90  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

port  of  a  conversation,  at  first  of  the  most  casual  sort,  appar- 
ently tending  no  whither,  that  sprang  up  between  Socrates, 
on  the  one  side,  and  several  interlocutors,  on  the  other, 
during  an  evening  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in  the  Piraeus. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  verisimilitude  of  the  representa- 
tion. You  irresistibly  feel  this  to  be  a  minute  section  cut 
right  out  of  the  heart  of  Athenian  life.  Plato  is  a  consum- 
mate artist  in  work  of  this  kind.  No  one  else  ever  knew  so 
well  as  did  he  how  to  create  the  illusion  of  life-like  reality, 
in  dialogue  invented  for  the  purpose  of  philosophical  disser- 
tation. You  do,  indeed,  weary  at  length  of  the  innumerable 
monotonous  assent  made  to  be  yielded  by  the  over-complais- 
ant disciples  of  Socrates  to  all  the  postulates  of  the  master. 
But  in  this  very  thing  perhaps  it  is,  that  the  reporter  or 
inventor  most  faithfully  portrays  the  actual  scenes  of  conver- 
sation that  took  place  between  the  great  Athenian  inquisitor 
and  those  with  whom  he  talked. 

Reporter  or  inventor — which  is  Plato  in  these  dialogues  of 
his.**  If  both,  then  in  what  proportion  the  one  and  the 
other  }  When  does  he  invent  and  when  report }  How  may 
we  distinguish  between  the  fact  and  the  fiction.?  The  an- 
swers to  these  questions  must  be  somewhat  unsatisfactory. 
No  one  can  tell.  That  Plato  both  reported  and  invented 
seems  tolerably  certain.  There  is  an  ancient  tradition,  not 
very  well  authenticated,  which  represents  Socrates  as  ex- 
claiming, on  sight  of  some  of  the  dialogues  of  Plato,  "  What 
quantities  of  lies  this  young  fellow  is  telling  about  me !  " 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  form  of  the  dialogue  is 
veritably  Socratic.  But  that  under  the  Socratic  form  Plato 
has  often  put  doctrines  of  which  his  master  was  equally  in- 
nocent and  ignorant,  there  can  be  as  little  doubt.  We  shall 
have  to  content  ourselves  with  remaining  at  many  points 
hopelessly  uncertain  whether  it  is  really  Socrates  or  Plato 
that  thinks  what  Socrates  is  made  to  maintain  in  the  pages  of 
Plato.     Plato  was  unquestionably  the  greatest  of  the  disci- 


Plato.  91 

pies  of  Socrates.  If  Socrates  took  supreme  possession  of  his 
pupil  with  the  tongue,  the  pupil  has  his  revenge — a  noble 
one — for  he,  too,  certainly  has  in  his  turn  taken  supreme 
possession  of  Socrates  with  his  pen. 

As  we  were  saying,  from  a  strain  of  conversation  not  ap- 
parently tending  at  all  to  the  purpose  suggested  in  the  title 
of  the  dialogue,  Plato  makes  a  very  unexpected  passage  to 
that  form  of  discussion  which  has  given  its  name  to  the  Re- 
public. It  is  on  this  wise  :  The  party  have  been  discussing 
very  widely  the  nature  of  justice  and  injustice.  Socrates 
says  (this  is  well  on  in  the  second  book  of  the  Republic)  that 
his  companions,  in  the  interview  being  reported  by  him,  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  have  him  proceed  with  his  investigation. 
Now  Plato :  (we  condense,  but  readers  closely  attending  will 
see  how  the  shift  is  made  from  the  subject  of  justice  and  in- 
justice in  general  to  the  subject  of  The  State,  as  exhibiting 
justice  or  injustice  on  a  magnified  scale  :) 

They  wanted  to  arrive  at  the  truth,  first,  about  the  nature  of  justice 
and  injustice,  and,  secondly,  about  their  relative  advantages.  I  told 
them,  what  I  really  thought,  that  the  search  would  be  no  easy  one,  and 
would  require  very  good  eyes.   .    .   . 

I  propose  [Socrates  says  that  he  said]  that  we  inquire  into  the  nature  of 
justice  and  injustice,  as  appearing  in  the  State  first,  and  secondly  in  the  in- 
dividual, proceeding  from  the  greater  to  the  lesser  and  comparing  them. . . . 

Shall  we  make  the  attempt  ?  I  said  ;  although  I  cannot  promise  you 
as  an  inducement  that  the  task  will  be  a  light  one.     Reflect  therefore. 

I  have  reflected,  said  Adeimantus,  and  am  anxious  that  you  should 
proceed. 

Socrates  proceeded.  To  do  that,  he  seemed  never  to 
need  any  inducement  beyond  the  seldom  absent  inducement 
of  willing  souls  to  listen.  In  this  case  he  in  fact  proceeded 
to  so  liberal  an  extent  that  the  whole  conversation,  trans- 
ferred to  these  pages,  would  fill  the  volume  from  cover  to 
cover.  It  appears  not  to  occasion  Plato  any  embarrassment, 
that  a  conversation  so  long  could  hardly  either  have  taken 
place,  as  represented,  during  a  single  evening  session  of  the 


92  College  G7'eek  Cotii'se  in  English. 

company ;  or  have  afterward,  as  represented,  been,  during  a 
single  evening  session  of  other  friends,  reported  by  Socrates. 

In  the  course  of  Socrates's  setting  forth  of  what  should 
enter  into  the  perfect  state,  that  brave  and  free  philosopher 
criticises  Homer  on  the  score  of  immorality.  The  poet  of 
the  ideal  society  should,  according  to  Socrates — or  to  Plato 
— be  restricted  to  representations  of  the  gods,  for  example, 
very  different  from  many  of  those  in  which  Homer  indulges. 
It  would  be  quite  interesting,  were  there  room  for  it  here, 
to  bring  forward  some  of  the  strictures  thus  applied  to 
Homer  by  Plato — or  perhaps  really,  as  ostensibly,  applied 
by  Socrates  through  Plato. 

These  things,  with  many  more  that,  like  these,  we  are 
obliged  to  omit,  our  readers  will  find  spread  out  at  large  in 
Mr.  Jowett's  incomparable  translation  of  Plato's  works. 
When  Dr.  Kendrick  wrote  his  admirable  paper  on  Plato  in 
the  New  American  Cyclopaedia,  (the  Appletons'  first  issue,) 
he  was  compelled  to  say  that  there  was  then  not  yet  any  ad- 
equate English  translation  of  Plato's  works  entire.  This  is 
no  longer  the  case,  for  by  universal  consent  of  scholars  and 
literary  men,  Mr.  Jowett's  version  leaves  little  or  nothing  to 
be  desired,  in  the  way  either  of  scholarlike  fidelity  to  the 
original  Greek  or  of  free  idiomatic  grace  in  English  expres- 
sion. Qur  quotations  from  the  text  of  Plato  will  all  of  them, 
with  certain  exceptions  to  be  particularly  noted  in  their  place, 
be  taken  from  Mr.  Jowett's  work. 

Every  body  has  heard  of  the  so-styled  "  Platonic  love." 
A  passage  of  the  Republic  will  explain  what  this  conception 
is.  It  may  simply  be  premised  that  there  was  rife  in  the 
ancient  Greek  and  Roman  world  a  practice  of  impure  affinity 
between  man  and  man.  The  word  "  love  "  in  the  mouth  of  a 
Greek  was  quite  as  likely  to  mean  this  indecent  relation,  as 
it  was  to  mean  any  more  natural  bond  of  affection  between 
the  two  different  sexes.  In  the  ideal  republic,  such  an  un- 
chaste relation  of  man  to  man  was  not  to  be  tolerated.     It  is 


Plato.  93 

tonic  and  purifying  to  read  the  passage  in  Plato  from  which 
we  limit  ourselves  to  take  the  following  sentence  containing 
the  conclusion,  on  the  subject,  arrived  at  by  the  colloquists. 
It  is  Socrates  who  speaks  : 

Then  I  suppose  that  in  the  city  which  we  are  founding  you  would  make 
a  law  that  a  friend  should  use  no  other  familiarity  to  his  love  than  a 
father  would  use  to  his  son,  and  this  only  for  a  virtuous  end,  and  he  must 
first  have  the  other's  consent ;  and  this  rule  is  to  limit  him  in  all  his 
intercourse,  and  he  is  never  to  go  further,  or,  if  he  exceeds,  he  is  to  be 
deemed  guilty  of  coarseness  and  bad  taste. 

Such,  in  the  Platonic  description,  is  "  Platonic  love." 
The  topic  of  love  had  been  led  up  to  by  a  passage  of  dis- 
course concerning  education  in  music  as  a  part  of  the  train- 
ing of  youth  in  the  perfect  state.  Music,  as  a  branch  of  cult- 
ure, is  more  inclusive,  in  the  Greek  use  of  the  term,  than  in 
ours.  You  are  to  bear  in  mind  the  derivation  of  the  word 
from  "  Muse,"  and  thus  to  conceive  of  music  as  embracing 
whatever  goes  to  the  culture  of  the  soul  to  appreciation  of 
the  beautiful.  The  following  long  Greek  sentence — a  good 
sample,  by  the  way,  of  the  informal  unorganized  aggregation 
of  members  and  clauses  that,  in  contrast  with  the  periodic 
structure  more  natural  to  the  Latin,  built  up  the  typical  sen- 
tence of  Plato — the  following  sentence,  we  say,  will  convey 
an  idea  of  the  general  cultivating  effect  attributed  by  Socra- 
tes to  music.  Delicious  writing  it  is — at  least  to  the  taste 
trained  to  enjoy  it,  delicious.  Socrates  says:  (we  give  Plato's 
own  words :) 

Is  not  this,  I  said,  the  reason,  Glaucon,  why  musical  training  is  so 
powerful,  because  rhythm  and  harmony  find  their  way  into  the  secret 
places  of  the  soul,  on  which  they  mightily  fasten,  bearing  grace  in  their 
movements,  and  making  the  soul  graceful  of  him  who  is  rightly  edu- 
cated, or  ungraceful  if  ill  educated  ;  and  also  because  he  who  has  re- 
ceived this  true  education  of  the  inner  being  will  most  shrewdly  per- 
ceive omissions  or  faults  in  art  and  nature,  and  with  a  true  taste,  while 
he  praises  and  rejoices  over,  and  receives  into  his  soul  the  good,  and  be- 
comes noble  and  good,  he  will  justly  blame  and  hate  the  bad,  now  in 


94  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

the  days  of  his  youth,  even  before  he  is  able  to  know  the  reason  of  the 
thing  ;  and  when  reason  comes  he  will  recognize  and  salute  her  as  a 
friend  with  whom  his  education  has  made  him  long  familiar. 

With  exquisite  verisimilitude,  Plato  makes  Socrates,  in  the 
midst  of  his  imaginings,  to  be  now  and  again  interrupted  by 
his  interlocutors  with  questions  of  a  practical  sort  concern- 
ing the  possibility  of  realizing  his  dreamed-of  ideal  society. 
Socrates  puts  off  his  questioners,  with  suave  and  self-poised 
postponement,  until  at  last  they  threaten  him  with  what  he 
pleasantly  calls  the  "  third  wave  "  of  difficulty.  This  form  of 
expression  alludes  to  the  supposed  fact,  or  the  real,  that 
every  third  wave  of  a  tide  coming  in,  is  stronger  than  the 
two  preceding.  Here  is  the  way  in  which  Socrates  shows 
himself  equal  to  the  occasion  that  the  dialogue  has  created 
for  him.     Plato  : 

Now,  then,  I  said,  I  go  to  meet  that  which  I  liken  to  the  greatest  of 
waves,  yet  shall  the  word  be  spoken,  even  though   the  running  over  of 
the  laughter  of  the  wave  shall  just  sink  me  beneath  the  waters  of  laugh- 
ter and  dishonor;  and  do  you  attend  to  me. 
Proceed,  he  said. 

I  said :  Until,  then,  philosophers  are  kings,  or  the  kings  and  princes  of 
this  world  have  the  spirit  and  power  of  philosophy,  and  political  great- 
ness and  wisdom  meet  in  one,  and  those  commoner  natures  who  follow 
either  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other  are  compelled  to  stand  aside,  cities 
will  never  cease  from  ill — no,  nor  the  human  race,  as  I  believe — and  then 
only  will  this  our  State  have  a  possibility  of  life  and  behold  the  light  of 
day :  this  was  what  I  wanted  but  was  afraid  to  say,  my  dear  Glaucon  ; 
for  to  see  that  there  is  no  other  way  either  of  private  or  public  happiness 
is  indeed  a  hard  thing. 

Of  Plato's  own  experience  in  the  attempt  to  make  his  words 
come  true,  and  to  exhibit  to  the  world  the  edifying  spectacle 
of  an  actual  state  presided  over  by  a  philosopher — in  the  per- 
son of  an  exemplar  of  the  class  no  less  renowned  than  him- 
self— we  shall  presently  have  something  interesting  to  say. 
That  will  be  when  we  reach  the  point,  not  forgotten,  though 
postponed,  of  telling  our  readers  very  briefly  the  story  of 
Plato's  life. 


Plato.  95 

The  true  lover  of  Plato,  wishing  to  commend  his  author  to 
students  of  literature  supposed  as  yet  not  acquainted  with 
his  writings,  experiences  a  difficulty  that  others  than  he  will 
hardly  appreciate,  in  making  his  omissions  and  selections 
from  pages  that  to  himself  seem,  every  one  of  them,  for  some 
reason  delectable.  But  we  must  be  strictly  impartial,  and 
remember  that  it  is  less  our  purpose  to  praise  Plato,  than  to 
present  him  as  he  is  to  our  readers.  The  Republic,  in  es- 
pecial, is  a  vast  repository  of  all  things  that  in  Plato  are  most 
characteristic  and  most  admirable.  It  is  extremely  hard  to 
hasten,  on  a  path  wherein  so  much  allures  one  to  loiter. 
With  one  more  yielding  to  the  decoy  of  gracious  thought 
couched  in  most  gracious  expression,  we  break  the  delaying 
spell  and  take  a  great  step  forward.  We  must  have  our 
readers  enjoy  with  us  the  following  passage,  in  which  they 
will  find  it  not  difficult  to  fancy  a  spirit  present  strangely 
greater  than  any  mere  philosophy,  a  spirit  akin,  almost,  to 
the  New  Testament  in  the  highest  power  of  that  inspired 
book.     Plato  :  (Socrates  chiefly  speaking  :) 

Then  there  is  a  very  small  remnant,  [some  readers  will  remember 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  late  teaching  among  us  on  the  subject  of  the 
"remnant,"]  Adeimantus,  I  said,  of  worthy  disciples  of  philosophy: 
perchance  some  noble  nature,  brought  up  under  good  influences,  and  in 
the  absence  of  temptation,  who  is  detained  by  exile  in  her  service,  which 
he  refuses  to  quit ;  or  some  lofty  soul  bom  in  a  mean  city,  the  politics  of 
which  he  contemns  or  neglects  ;  and  perhaps  there  may  be  a  few  who, 
having  a  gift  for  philosophy,  leave  other  arts,  which  they  justly  despise, 
and  come  to  her  ;  and  peradventure  there  are  some  who  are  restrained 
by  our  friend  Theages's  bridle,  (for  Theages,  you  know,  had  every  thing 
to  divert  him  from  philosophy;  but  his  ill  health  kept  him  from  politics.) 
My  own  case  of  the  internal  sign  is  indeed  hardly  worth  mentioning,  as 
very  rarely,  if  ever,  has  such  a  monitor  been  vouchsafed  to  any  one  else. 
Those  who  belong  to  this  small  class  have  tasted  how  sAveet  and  blessed 
a  possession  philosophy  is,  and  have  also  seen  and  been  satisfied  of  the 
madness  of  the  multitude,  and  known  that  there  is  no  one  who  ever  acts 
honestly  in  the  administration  of  States,  nor  any  helper  who  will  save  any 
one  who  maintains  the  cause  of  the  just.     Such  a  saviour  would  be  like 


g6  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

a  man  who  has  fallen  among  wild  beasts — unable  to  join  in  the  wicked- 
ness of  his  fellows,  neither  would  he  be  able  alone  to  resist  all  their 
fierce  natures,  and  therefore  he  would  be  of  no  use  to  the  State,  or  to  his 
friends,  and  would  have  to  throw  away  his  life  before  he  had  done  any 
good  to  himself  or  others.  And  he  reflects  upon  all  this,  and  holds  his 
peace,  and  does  his  own  business.  He  is  like  one  who  retires  under  the 
shelter  of  a  wall  in  the  storm  of  dust  and  sleet,  which  the  driving  wind 
hurries  along  ;  and  when  he  sees  the  rest  of  mankind  full  of  wickedness, 
he  is  content  if  only  he  can  live  his  own  life  and  be  pure  from  evil  or 
unrighteousness,  and  depart  in  peace  and  good-will,  with  bright  hopes. 

And  he  who  does  this,  he  said,  will  have  done  a  great  work  before  he 
departs. 

Yes,  I  said,  a  great  work,  but  not  the  greatest  unless  he  find  a  state 
suitable  to  him  ;  for  in  a  state  which  is  suitable  to  him  he  will  have  a 
larger  growth,  and  be  the  saviour  of  his  country  as  well  as  of  himself. 
• 

The  "  internal  sign,"  to  which  Socrates  in  the  foregoing 
passage  alludes,  is  the  monition  of  his  "  daemon,"  or  "  spirit  " 
— a  kind  of  divinity  within  him  that  governed  his  conduct. 
Just  what  Socrates  meant  is  not  agreed.  Perhaps  nothing 
more  than  his  conscience,  perhaps  an  indwelling  supernat- 
ural being.  Whatever  the  Socratic  "  daemon  "  was,  it  wa-s  a 
benign  and  beneficent  influence,  very  necessary  to  be  taken 
account  of  in  trying  to  understand  the  character  and  con- 
duct of  Socrates.  How  much  pathos  of  wisdom  there  is  in 
the  sigh  of  Socrates  for  a  suitable  State  in  which  the  anointed 
philosopher  might  do  his  work  for  the  saving  of  mankind ! 
Opportunity  is  as  indispensable  as  the  man. 

Our  seven-league  step  forward  now — to  the  beginning  of 
the  seventh  book  of  the  Republic.  Here  we  have  a  very 
famous  passage — more  famous  none,  perhaps,  in  the  whole 
cycle  of  Platonic  literature.  We  give,  in  suflficient  citation 
from  the  original  text  as  translated  by  Mr.  Jowett,  the  cele- 
brated figure  under  which  Plato  makes  Socrates  set  forth  the 
central  doctrine  of  the  Platonic  philosophy,  the  doctrine  of 
*'  ideas  "  so-called  : 

After  this,   I  said,  imagine  the   enlightenment  or  ignorance  of  our 
nature  in  a  figure:  Behold  human  beings  living  in  a  sort  of  under- 


Plato. 


97 


ground  den,  which  has  a  mouth  open  toward  the  light  and  reaching  all 
across  the  den  ;  they  have  been  here  from  their  childhood,  and  have 
their  legs  and  necks  chained  so  that  they  cannot  move,  and  can  only  see 
before  them  ;  for  the  chains  are  arranged  in  such  a  manner  as  to  prevent 
them  from  turning  round  their  heads.  At  a  distance  above  and  behind 
them  the  light  of  a  fire  is  blazing,  and  between  the  fire  and  the  prison- 
ers there  is  a  raised  way  ;  and  you  will  see,  if  you  look,  a  low  wall  built 
along  the  way,  like  the  screen  which  marionette  players  have  before 
them,  over  which  they  show  the  puppets. 

I  see,  he  said. 

And  do  you  see,  I  said,  men  passing  along  the  wall  carrying  vessels 
which  appear  over  the  wall  ;  also  figures  of  men  and  animals,  made  of 
wood  and  stone  and  various  materials  ;  and  some  of  the  passengers,  as 
you  would  expect,  are  talking,  and  some  of  them  are  silent  ? 

That  is  a  strange  image,  he  said,  and  they  are  strange  prisoners. 

Like  ourselves,  I  replied. 

This  allegory,  I  said,  you  may  now  append  to  the  previous  argument ; 
the  prison  is  the  world  of  sight,  the  light  of  the  fire  is  the  sun,  the  ascent 
and  vision  of  the  things  above  you  may  truly  regard  as  the  upward  prog- 
ress of  the  soul  into  the  intellectual  world. 


If  any  reader  of  ours  has  found  it  difficult  to  conceive 
exactly,  in  all  its  features,  the  situation  described  by  Socra- 
tes, that  reader  may  fairly,  we  think,  transfer  the  blame,  in 
considerable  part,  to  Plato  himself. 

Of  actual  things,  the  prisoners  supposed  know  only  the 
shadows.  To  them  the  shadows  are  the  realities.  So,  Plato 
taught,  this  whole  frame  of  things,  the  visible  universe,  is 
nothing  but  a  colossal  system  of  shadows.  We  mortals  see 
nothing  as  it  is,  but  every  thing  only  as  it  is  given  in  a  shadow 
or  image  of  itself.  The  business  of  the  philosopher  is  to  pass 
from  the  world  of  shadows  to  the  world  of  realities.  A  world 
of  realities  there  is.  For  things  that  we  see  are  not  sheer 
illusions.  They  are  true,  though  imperfect,  images  of  the  true. 
Every  shadow — in  other  words,  every  object  of  sense — has 
somewhere  its  reality  corresponding.  There  is  an  antitype 
for  every  type.  God  made  what  we  see  in  the  world  after 
certain  patterns  or  ideas.     These  ideas  are  the  sole  realities. 


98  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

The  things  fashioned  after  them  are  images  only.  Philoso- 
phy deals  with  objects  themselves,  and  not  with  the  images 
of  objects.  Philosophy  therefore  deals  with  ideas.  The 
emphasis  of  the  Platonic  doctrine  of  ideas  is  not  that  the  ap- 
parent world  is  unreal,  but  that  the  unapparent  world  is  real. 
Plato  is  thus  not  an  idealist,  in  the  modern  sense  of  that 
philosophical  term.     He  is  a  realist  rather. 

The  Platonic  conception  of  the  universe  of  things  about 
us,  objects  of  our  various  senses,  as  being  simply  a  frame-work 
of  shadows,  or  images,  answering  to  a  transcendent  world  of 
realities  beyond  the  reach  of  any  thing  within  us  but  thought 
— the  Platonic  doctrine,  we  say,  that  this,  the  supersensual 
world  of  ideas,  of  archetypes,  far  from  being  a  mere  dream 
of  the  mind,  constitutes,  in  fact,  the  only  real  and  substantial 
thing  that  exists — this  Platonic  conception  and  doctrine,  it 
probably  was,  that  suggested  to  Milton  his  making  of  Raphael 

say, 

What  if  earth 
Be  but  the  shadow  of  heaven,  and  things  therein 
Each  to  other  like,  more  than  on  earth  is  thought  ? 

It  might  be  a  question  whether,  but  for  Plato's  doctrine  of 
ideas,  the  method  of  allegorical  interpretation  for  the  Bible, 
once  prevaknt  so  widely  in  the  Christian  Church,  and  still,  in 
the  hands  of  bold  and  ingenious,  but  ill-instructed,  expound- 
ers of  Scripture,  shawing  itself  ready  here  or  there  to  be  re- 
vived— it  is  doubtful,  we  say,  whether  the  allegorizing  style 
of  biblical  exposition  would,  apart  from  Plato's  influence, 
ever  once  have  had  its  rise  in  the  powerful  initiative  of  the 
great  Origen.  Realism,  so-called  in  historical  metaphysics, 
that  is,  the  doctrine  that  for  every  general  term,  like  man, 
horse,  tree,  there  is  a  real  universal  object,  man,  horse,  tree, 
existing  apart  from  any  particular  object,  man,  horse,  tree ; 
this  doctrine,  the  contrast  to  nominalism  (which  holds  that 
the  general  term  is  merely  a  term,  with  no  outward  reality 
corresponding)  is  the  fruit  of  Platonic  philosophy.     Sweden- 


Plato.  99 

borg,  with  his  system  of  correspondences,  derives  no  doubt 
from  Plato.  Such  is  the  long  and  wide  reach  of  influence  in 
the  world  of  thought. 

We  pass  over  the  exposition  given  by  Plato  in  The  Repub- 
lic to  his  doctrine  of  the  threefold  nature  of  man — "  body, 
soul,  and  spirit,"  to  use  the  not  most  happily  chosen  terms 
under  which  the  phraseology  of  our  English  Scriptures  has 
accustomed  us  to  hear  the  doctrine  spoken  of — we  pass  over 
this,  and  dispatch  our  sketch  of  the  greatest  of  Plato's  works 
by  presenting  the  brief  paragraph  with  which  the  dialogue 
closes.  There  has  immediately  preceded  an  elaborate  myth 
or  legend,  the  fabrication  of  Plato,  which,  had  we  room  for 
it,  we  should  gladly  insert.  True,  it  would  puzzle,  more  than 
it  would  enlighten,  the  reader;  but  it  would,  spite  of  that, 
partly  indeed  because  of  that,  serve  to  exhibit  Plato  more 
fully  such  as  he  really  is.  The  tale  is  of  a  vision  of  Er — a 
man  represented  as  returning  from  the  dead  to  bring  thence  a 
message  to  the  living.  The  conclusion  of  the  whole  book, 
following  that  tale,  is  this : 

And  thus,  Glaucon,  the  tale  has  been  saved,  and  has  not  perished, 
and  may  be  our  salvation  if  we  are  obedient  to  the  word  spoken  ;  and  we 
shall  pass  safely  over  the  river  of  forgetfulness,  and  our  soul  will  not  be 
defiled.  Wherefore  my  counsel  is,  that  we  hold  fast  to  the  heavenly  way 
and  follow  after  justice  and  virtue  always,  considering  that  the  soul  is 
immortal  and  able  to  endure  every  sort  of  good  and  every  sort  of  evil. 
Thus  shall  we  live  dear  to  one  another  and  to  the  gods,  both  while  re- 
maining here  and  when,  like  conquerors  in  the  games,  who  go  round 
to  gather  gifts,  we  receive  our  reward.  And  it  shall  be  well  with  us 
both  in  this  life  and  in  the  pilgrimage  of  a  thousand  years  which  we 
have  been  reciting. 

The  Republic  is  doubly  misnamed.  First,  the  ideal  State 
is  not,  according  to  Plato,  a  republic  ;  and,  secondly,  the 
dialogue  is  not  about  the  ideal  State.  The  feature  of  the 
ideal  State  is  a  huge  parenthesis  occurring  in  the  course  of 
discussion  concerning  the  nature  of  justice.  It  is,  to  use 
mathematical  language,  in  the  nature  of  lemma  to  this  main 


loo  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

proposition.  To  this  main  proposition  the  return  is  duly 
made  at  length  ;  and,  in  noble  climax  to  the  argument,  a 
plea  for  the  immortality  of  the  soul  is  introduced.  There  is 
a  secondary  title  to  the  dialogue,  "  Concerning  Justice."  This 
would,  perhaps,  be  more  faithfully  descriptive,  but  "  The  Re- 
public "  has  securely  established  itself  as  the  name  of  the 
greatest  of  the  dialogues  of  Plato. 

Plato's  dream  of  the  perfect  State  is  a  singular  mixture  of 
what  seem  to  us  discordant  elements.  He  would  banish 
poets  and  enthrone  philosophers.  He  would  have  wives  and 
children  common.  (The  late  Oneida  Community  was  in  this 
last  feature  almost  a  realization  of  Plato's  republic.) 

It  happened  to  the  poet-philosopher,  author  of  this  dialogue, 
to  have  an  opportunity  to  attempt,  on  a  noble  scale,  the 
actualization  of  his  ideal.  He  visited  Syracuse,  a  city  flour- 
ishing now  in  a  magnificent  prosperity  under  the  reign,  or 
tyranny  so-called,  of  Dionysius.  Introduced  to  that  ruler, 
Plato  opened  to  him  the  vision  that  had  ravished  his  own 
soul.  But  Dionysius  was  enraged  instead  of  enchanted,  and 
he  had  Plato  for  his  pains  sent  to  the  market  to  be  sold  as  a 
slave.  The  philosopher,  so  the  tyrant  exclaimed,  shall  try  for 
himself  the  truth  of  his  doctrine  that  the  virtuous  man  is 
still  happy  even  in  chains.  Plato's  friends  bought  him  in  for 
a  round  sum,  and  got  him  safe  back  to  Athens.  Here,  or 
near  here,  he  spent  twenty  years  of  his  life,  teaching  philoso- 
phy. Disciples  thronged  to  him,  of  the  choicest  classes  of 
citizens,  from  every  part  of  Hellas.  The  fact  that,  during 
the  life-time  of  the  teacher,  Athens  went  through  the  agony 
of  the  Peloponnesian  war,  and  came  out  spoiled  of  her 
empire — this  great  fact  of  the  national  history  you  would 
hardly  once  be  compelled  to  remember  from  any  allusion 
occurring  in  the  dialogues.  Plato  seems  to  have  been  as 
little  a  patriot  in  his  time  as  was  Goethe  in  his  time,  and  as 
little  disturbed  by  any  painful  sympathy  with  his  kind  from 
the  serenity  of  philosophic  contemplation. 


Plato.  loi 

After  twenty  years  thus  spent,  Plato  received  from  a  friend 
at  court  a  second  summons  to  Syracuse.  Dionysius  was  dead, 
and  Dionysius  II.,  his  son,  had  s^icceeded  to  the  throne. 
Plato's  friend  at  court,  Dion,  was  a^^k4^kmarf-/)f  thi^  pHnce, 
and  he  had  inspired  the  young  sovereign  with^^re^t  desire  to 
know  Plato.  The  Athenian  phik)3op'hcr  jb^t",vi$'\iftioY^X' 
whelming  welcome  to  Syracuse.  The  tyrant  himself  went 
down  to  greet  him  when  he  landed,  and  a  public  sacrifice  of 
thanksgiving  signalized  an  advent  so  auspicious.  The  prom- 
ise was  fair,  A  new  order  of  things  began  at  the  Syracusan 
court.  Philosophy  became  the  fashion.  It  is  said  that  Dio- 
nysius was  actually  ready  to  change  the  frame-work  of  the 
State — to  become  himself  a  constitutional,  in  place  of  remain- 
ing an  absolute,  monarch.  He  proposed  also  to  give  back 
their  freedom  to  the  subjected  Greek  cities  of  Sicily.  Plato 
however  preferring  that  his  pupil  should  be  thoroughly 
grounded  in  philosophy  before  he  began  to  put  philosophy 
in  practice,  nothing  practical  was  done.  Meantime  the 
young  tyrant  was  tiring  of  philosophy,  and  the  courtiers  about 
him  were  poisoning  his  mind  against  both  Dion  and  the 
"Athenian  sophist."  It  resulted  that  Dion  was  exiled,  and 
that  Plato,  after  having  been  kept  luxuriously  for  a  time  as  a 
prisoner  in  the  palace,  was  dismissed  to  return  home.  Dio- 
nysius, they  say,  remarked  to  the  philosopher  embarking, 
"  You  will  speak  ill  of  Dionysius  in  your  academy."  *'  Nay, 
but  in  the  academy  we  shall  have  no  time  to  speak  at  all  of 
Dionysius,"  was  the  reply. 

It  would  hardly  be  believed,  but  after  ten  years  more  Plato 
was  a  third  time  sent  for  to  come  to  Syracuse.  Dion  should 
be  recalled,  if  Plato  would  come.  Plato  went,  but  Dion, 
so  far  from  being  recalled,  now  had  his  property  confiscated 
and  his  wife  given  away  from  himself  to  another  man.  Plato 
had  the  sad  fortune  to  be  himself  the  bearer  of  these  ill 
tidings  to  his  friend  met  on  the  homeward  voyage  at  the 
Olympian  games.     Our  readers  will  be  comforted^ — pagan- 


I02  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

wise — to  know  that  Dion  had  subsequently  his  turn,  a  short 
one,  of  triumph  over  his  enemy.  He  entered  Syracuse  as  a 
conqueror  at  the  he^ad  ^of  an  army — only,  however,  to  be 
base^^-ijipfurderfed  ^3f..^  J^f^pacherous  friend. 

Plato  ,H(C^w^,^5§Sijm^d,Jiis^::ourses  in  philosophy  at  Athens. 
a^xi  fcJmJpi&^Sd  rlj^,  di;a)x>gUes  that  have  through  so  many  gen- 
erations continued  his  influence  and  his  fame.  Diogenes 
Laertius  has  a  life  of  him.  He  taught  till  he  was  eighty-one 
years  of  age,  and,  according  to  Cicero,  died  pen  in  hand, 
seated  at  his  desk.  He  was  a  native  of  ^gi'na.  The  year 
of  his  birth  was  the  same  as  that  in  which  Pericles  died.  It  is 
difficult  to  imagine  that  a  life  lived  so  placidly  as,  despite  his 
Syracusan  adventures,  was  Plato's,  could  have  coincided  with 
a  period  of  history  so  stormy  and  so  disastrous  as  that  of  the 
Peloponnesian  war  to  the  Athenian  state.  The  clash  of  arms 
seems  removed  indefinitely  far  away  from  the  sacred  silence 
of  the  olive  grove  of  academe.  Plato  must,  however,  we 
suppose,  have  done  duty  with  the  rest,  watching  against  the 
foe  in  that  evil  day  which,  in  the  philosopher's  early  man- 
hood, came  upon  Athens.  Probably,  too,  a  boy  of  fifteen,  he 
went  down  to  the  Piraeus,  with  the  whole  holiday  city,  to  see 
the  brilliant  Sicilian  expedition  make  that  gay  start — to 
tempt  its  danger  and  to  meet  its  doom. 

The  Timaeus  is  described  by  Mr.  Jowett  as  of  all  the 
writings  of  Plato  '*the  most  obscure  and  most  repulsive  to 
modern  readers,"  while  the  most  influential  of  all  over  the 
ancient  and  mediaeval  world.  This  is  not  a  characteriza- 
tion likely  in  a  very  marked  degree  to  enlist  the  interest  of 
English  readers.  The  Timaeus  is  a  sort  of  pendant  to  the 
Republic.  We  must  needs  give  it  in  the  same  breath  both 
hail  and  farewell.  Even  in  the  act  of  saying  this,  we  have, 
with  much  eff"ort,  to  swallow  a  mighty  qualm  of  misgiving; 
for  we  bethink  us  of  such  gleams  of  beauty  as  the  following  : 

When  a  weaker  or  lesser  frame  is  the  vehicle  of  a  great  and  mighty 
soul,  or  conversely,  when  they  are  united  in  the  opposite  way,  then  the 


Plato.  103 

whole  animal  is  not  fair,  for  it  is  defective  in  the  most  important  of  all 
symmetries  ;  but  the  fair  mind  in  the  fair  body  will  be  the  fairest  and 
loveliest  of  all  sights  to  him  who  has  the  seeing  eye. 

Nevertheless  we  pass  on.  On  the  whole,  the  entertaining 
and  fair  in  the  Tiraaeus  yields  to  the  tedious  and  disgustful. 
Of  the  Laws,  the  very  longest  of  Plato's  works,  we  need 
say  no  more  than  that  this  dialogue  is  a  kind  of  redac- 
tion, a  modification,  an  accommodation,  of  the  Republic.  It 
was,  as  has  been  intimated,  written  in  the  author's  old  age. 
It  presents  a  rather  pathetic  falling  off  from  the  wealth  and 
splendor  of  the  earlier  work.  So  great,  indeed,  is  the  dis- 
parity, that  some  critics  reject  the  Laws  as  spurious.  They 
will  not  have  it  that  the  author  of  the  Republic  could  possi- 
bly produce  a  work  like  the  Laws. 

There  is  in  Plato  no  more  distinctively  Greek,  no  more  dis- 
tinctively Platonic,  dialogue  than  the  Symposium,  or  Ban- 
quet. This  is  a  report  of  a  conversation  in  which,  with  others 
less  distinguished,  the  comic  poet  Aristophanes,  the  tragic 
poet  Ag'a-thon,  (an  author  known  to  us  only  by  name,  none  of 
his  works  surviving,  yet  plausibly  conjectured  to  have  been 
in  genius  hardly  second  to  ^schylus  or  Sophocles,)  the 
famous  and  infamous  Alcibiades,  are  represented  as  taking 
part.  The  place  is  the  house  of  Agathon,  who  celebrates  a 
feast  in  honor  of  a  victory  of  his  muse.  Love  is  the  subject 
of  the  dialogue.  Each  speaker  has  it  for  a  kind  of  task  im- 
posed upon  him  to  make  the  finest  speech  he  can  in  favor  of 
love.  Love  is  here  conceived  of  in  such  a  way,  a  way  so 
equivocal — in  short,  so  pagan  and  so  Grecian — that  a  large 
part  of  the  whole  dialogue  would  be  unfit  for  reproduction  in 
these  pages.  But  were  the  several  discourses  unobjection- 
able on  the  score  of  moral  purity,  still  it  were  a  taste  not  to  be 
acquired,  save  through  long  habituation  to  the  Greek  classics 
that  would  qualify  thoroughly  to  enjoy  the  Symposium  of 
Plato.  It  is  a  piece  of  Greek  writing  at  the  extreme  point 
of  remove  from  modern  standards. 


I04  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

To  one  passage  in  particular  of  this  dialogue  there  attaches 
an  interest  derived  from  frequency  of  allusion  to  it  in  re- 
cent literature,  that  might  make  us  wish  to  admit  it  here,  in 
sufficient  exemplification  of  the  whole  composition.  But 
unfortunately  the  inseparable  original  quality  of  this  passage 
puts  such  transfer  of  it  quite  out  of  the  question.  There 
would  probably  be  fewer  sentimental  allusions  to  Plato's 
idea  of  human  beings  as  created  mutual  halves,  each  half 
to  wander  about  in  quest  of  its  fellow,  were  it  better  known 
in  what  terms,  and  with  pleasantry  how  unchaste,  that  idea 
is  introduced  in  the  pages  of  Plato — fitly,  too,  introduced 
as  from  the  mouth  of  the  ribald  comic  poet  Aristophanes. 
There  could  not  be  a  better  illustration  of  the  change  from 
ancient  Greek  taste  and  morality  to  Christian,  than  the  con- 
trast between  the  original  in  Plato,  and  the  forms  under 
which  that  original  is  made  to  appear  in  modern  allusion. 
So  much  for  moral  ugliness  made  aesthetically  beautiful  in 
Plato's  Symposium. 

But  there  is  moral  beauty  too,  made  more  beautiful,  in 
this  unique  piece  of  literature.  Alcibiades,  coming  in  drunk, 
is  made  by  Plato  to  become  the  eulogist  of  Socrates.  His 
eulogy  is  doubly  so  characteristic,  first  of  the  author,  and  then 
of  the  subject — perhaps  trebly  so  characteristic  we  should 
say,  thus  adding,  thirdly,  of  Plato  himself — that  we  must 
give  this  passage  at  least  in  extract  from  the  Symposium. 
For  sheer  want  of  room  we  have  to  omit  the  life-like  de- 
scription of  the  disorderly  arrival  of  Alcibiades  with  his 
reveling  rout,  and  the  well-turned  banter,  never  erring  from 
urbanity,  that  passed  between  Alcibiades  and  Socrates,  be- 
fore the  former  began,  as  follows  : 

I  shall  praise  Socrates  in  a  figure  which  will  appear  to  him  to  be  a 
caricature,  and  yet  I  do  not  mean  to  laugh  at  him,  but  only  to  speak  the 
truth.  I  say,  then,  that  he  is  exactly  like  the  masks  of  Si-le^nus,  which 
may  be  seen  sitting  in  the  statuaries*  shops,  having  pipes  and  flutes  in 
their  mouths  ;  and  they  are  made  to  open  in  the  middle,  and  there  are 


Plato. 


SOCRATES. 


images  of  gods  inside  them.  I  say,  also,  that  he  is  like  Mar'sy-as,  the 
satyr.  You  will  not  deny,  Socrates,  that  your  face  is  like  that  of  a  satyr. 
Aye,  and  there  is  a  resemblance  in  other 
points,  too.  For  example,  you  are  a 
bully, — that  I  am  in  a  position  to  prove 
by  the  evidence  of  witnesses,  if  you  will 
not  confess.  And  are  you  not  a  flute- 
player?  That  you  are,  and  a  far  more 
wonderful  performer  than  Marsyas.  For 
he,  indeed,  with  instruments  charmed 
the  souls  of  men  by  the  power  of  his 
breath,  as  the  performers  of  his  music  do 
still :  for  the  melodies  of  Olympus  are 
derived  from  the  teaching  of  Marsyas, 
and  these,  whether  they  are  played  by  a 
great  master,  or  by  a  miserable  flute- 
girl,  have  a  power  which  no  other  have  ; 
th^y  alone  possess  the  soul  and  reveal  the 
wants  of  those  who  have  need  of  gods  and  mysteries,  because  they  are 
inspired.  But  you  produce  the  same  effect  with  the  voice  only,  and  do 
not  require  the  flute  ;  that  is  the  difference  between  you  and  him.  When 
we  hear  any  other  speaker,  even  a  very  good  one,  his  words  produce  ab- 
solutely no  effect  upon  us  in  comparison,  whereas  the  very  fragments  of 
you  and  your  words,  even  at  second-hand,  and  however  imperfectly  re- 
peated, amaze  and  possess  the  soul  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child, 
who  comes  within  hearing  of  them.  And  if  I  were  not  afraid  that  you 
would  think  me  drunk,  I  would  have  sworn  as  well  as  spoken  to  the  in- 
fluence which  they  have  always  had,  and  still  have,  over  me.  For  my 
heart  leaps  within  me  more  than  that  of  any  Corybantian  reveler,  and  my 
eyes  rain  tears  when  I  hear  them.  And  I  observe  that  many  others  are 
affected  in  the  same  way.  I  have  heard  Pericles,  and  other  great  ora- 
tors, but  though  I  thought  that  they  spoke  well,  I  never  had  any  similar 
feeling  ;  my  soul  was  not  stirred  by  them,  nor  was  I  angry  at  the 
thought  of  my  own  slavish  state.  But  this  Marsyas  has  often  brought 
me  to  such  a  pass,  that  I  have  felt  as  if  I  could  hardly  endure  the  life 
which  I  am  leading;  (this,  Socrates,  you  admit;)  and  I  am  conscious  that 
if  I  did  not  shut  my  ears  against  him,  and  fly  from  the  voice  of  the 
siren,  he  would  detain  me  until  I  grew  old  sitting  at  his  feet.  For  he 
makes  me  confess  that  I  ought  not  to  live  as  I  do,  neglecting  the  wants 
of  my  own  soul,  and  busying  myself  with  the  concerns  of  the  Athenians  ; 
therefore  I  hold  my  ears  and  tear  myself  away  from  him.  And  he  is  the 
6* 


io6  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

only  person  who  ever  made  me  ashamed,  which  you  might  think  not  to  be 
in  my  nature,  and  there  is  no  one  else  who  does  the  same.  For  I  know 
that  I  cannot  answer  him  or  say  that  I  ought  not  to  do  as  he  bids,  but 
when  I  leave  his  presence  the  love  of  popularity  gets  the  better  of  me. 
And  therefore  I  run  away  and  fly  from  him,  and  when  I  see  him  I  am 
ashamed  of  what  I  have  confessed  to  him.  And  many  a  time  I  wish  that 
he  were  dead,  and  yet  I  know  that  I  should  be  much  more  sorry  than  glad, 
if  he  were  to  die :  so  that  I  am  at  my  wit's  end.  ...  He  and  I  went  on 
the  expedition  to  Pot-i-dae'a;  there  we  messed  together,  and  I  had  the  op- 
portunity of  observing  his  extraordinary  power  of  sustaining  fatigue  and 
going  without  food  when  our  supplies  were  intercepted  at  any  place,  as 
will  happen  with  an  army.  In  the  faculty  of  endurance  he  was  superior, 
not  only  to  me,  but  to  every  body  ;  there  was  no  one  to  be  compared  to 
him.  Yet,  at  a  festival,  he  was  the  only  person  who  had  any  real  powers 
of  enjoyment,  and,  though  not  willing  to  drink,  he  could,  if  compelled, 
beat  us  all  at  that,  and  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all  was  that  no 
human  being  had  ever  seen  Socrates  drunk  ;  and  that,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, will  soon  be  tested.  His  endurance  of  cold  was  also  surprising. 
There  was  a  severe  frost,  for  the  winter  in  that  region  was  really  tre- 
mendous, and  every  body  else  either  remained  indoors,  or,  if  they  went 
out,  had  on  no  end  of  clothing,  and  were  well  shod,  and  had  their  feet 
swathed  in  felts  and  fleeces  :  in  the  midst  of  this,  Socrates,  with  his  bare 
feet  on  the  ice,  and  in  his  ordinary  dress,  marched  better  than  any  of 
the  other  soldiers  who  had  their  shoes  on,  and  they  looked  daggers  at 
him  because  he  seemed  to  despise  them. 

I  have  told  you  one  tale,  and  now  I  must  tell  you  another,  which  is 
worth  hearing,  of  the  doings  and  sufferings  of  this  enduring  man  while 
he  was  on  the  expedition.  One  morning  he  was  thinking  about  some- 
thing which  he  could  not  resolve  ;  and  he  would  not  give  up,  but  con- 
tinued thinking  from  early  dawn  until  noon — there  he  stood  fixed  in 
thought ;  and  at  noon  attention  was  drawn  to  him,  and  the  rumor  ran 
through  the  wondering  crowd  that  Socrates  had  been  standing  and 
thinking  about  something  ever  since  the  break  of  day.  At  last,  in  the 
evening  after  supper,  some  lonians,  out  of  curiosity,  (I  should  explain 
that  this  was  not  in  winter  but  in  summer,)  brought  out  their  mats  and 
slept  in  the  open  air  that  they  might  watch  him  and  see  whether  he 
would  stand  all  night.  There  he  stood  all  night,  as  well  as  all  day,  and 
the  following  morning ;  and  with  the  return  of  light  he  offered  up  a 
prayer  to  the  sun,  and  went  his  way.  .  .  .  Many  are  the  wonders  of 
Socrates  which  I  might  narrate  in  his  praise ;  most  of  his  ways  might, 
perhaps,  be  paralleled  in  others,  but  the  most  astonishing  thing  of  all  is 


Plato.  107 


his  absolute  unlikeness  to  any  human  being  that  is  or  ever  has  been. 
You  may  imagine  Bras'i-das  and  others  to  have  been  like  Achilles  ;  or 
you  may  imagine  Nestor  and  An-te'nor  to  have  been  like  Pericles  ;  and 
the  same  may  be  said  of  other  famous  men  ;  but  of  this  strange  being 
you  will  never  be  able  to  find  any  likeness,  however  remote,  either 
among  men  who  now  are  or  who  ever  have  been,  except  that  which  I 
have  already  suggested  of  Silenus  and  the  satyrs  ;  and  this  is  an  alle- 
gory not  only  of  himself,  but  also  of  his  words.  For,  although  I  forgot 
to  mention  this  before,  his  words  are  ridiculous  when  you  first  hear 
them  ;  he  clothes  himself  in  language  that  is  as  the  skin  of  the  wanton 
satyr — for  his  talk  is  of  pack-asses,  and  smiths,  and  cobblers,  and  curriers, 
and  he  is  always  repeating  the  same  things  in  the  same  words,  so  that 
an  ignorant  man  who  did  not  know  him  might  feel  disposed  to  laugh  at 
him  ;  but  he  who  pierces  the  mask  and  sees  what  is  within,  will  find 
that  they  are  the  only  words  which  have  a  meaning  in  them,  and  also 
the  most  divine,  abounding  in  fair  examples  of  virtue,  and  of  the  largest 
discourse,  or  rather  extending  to  the  whole  duty  of  a  good  and  honora- 
ble man. 

This,  friends,  is  my  praise  of  Socrates. 

What  a  charming  idealization  of  Socrates !  Did  Alcibiades 
ever  utter  it .?  Could  he  have  uttered  it  "i  And  drunk  ?  Did 
Plato  make  it  all  up  1  However  first  produced,  to  what  ex- 
tent was  it  true  of  Socrates .''  Of  Alcibiades  .<*  We  never  can 
certainly  tell.  But  in  any  case  the  ideal  itself,  with  its  rav- 
ishing beauty,  remains  and  is  imperishable.  That  it  should 
have  sprung  up  at  all  in  the  bosom  of  a  civilization  so  corrupt, 
is  marvelous.  That  it  should  have  had  a  living  embodiment, 
as  perhaps  indeed  in  Socrates  it  had,  is  a  marvel  of  marvels. 
That  such  an  embodied  ideal  should  have  been  pushed  to 
the  doom  of  the  hemlock — alas,  that  that  alone  should  not 
be  marvelous !  Those  parts  of  Plato  which  tell  the  story  of 
the  end  of  this  great  teacher — teacher,  rather  than  philoso- 
pher, we  should  ourselves  be  disposed  to  call  Socrates — will 
follow  presently.  Meantime  a  brief  term  of  delay  with  some 
other  of  Plato's  works. 

The  Phaedrus  is  a  complement  of  the  Banquet.  Like  that, 
it  treats  the  subject  of  love.     The  two  coUoquists,  Phaedrus 


io8  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

and  Socrates,  take  a  walk  together  outside  the  wall,  and 
Socrates,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  city-lover,  is  smitten  with  the 
charms  of  the  country.  The  bits  of  delicious  landscape  and 
scenery  in  the  dialogue  we  must  transfer  to  our  canvas. 
We  use  our  magic  ring  of  Gyges  and  invisibly  join  Socrates 
and  Phaedrus,  as  they  walk  and  talk  and  behold.     Plato  : 

Socrates.  Turn  this  way;  let  us  go  to  the  I-lis'sus,  and  sit  down  at  some 
quiet  spot. 

Phcedrus.  I  am  fortunate  in  not  having  my  sandals,  and  as  you  never 
have  any,  I  think  that  we  may  go  along  the  brook  and  cool  our  feet  in 
the  water  ;  this  is  the  easiest  way,  and  at  midday  and  in  the  summer  is 
far  from  being  unpleasant. 

Soc.  Lead  on,  and  look  out  for  a  place  in  which  we  can  sit  down. 

PJmdr.  Do  you  see  that  tallest  plane-tree  in  the  distance  ? 

Soc.  Yes, 

Phadr.  There  are  shade  and  gentle  breezes,  and  grass  on  which  we 
may  either  sit  or  lie  down. 

Soc.   Move  on. 

Phcedr.  I  should  like  to  know,  Socrates,  whether  the  place  is  not 
somewhere  here  at  which  Bo're-as  is  said  to  have  carried  off  Or-i-thy'i-a 
from  the  banks  of  the  Ilissus. 

Soc.  That  is  the  tradition. 

Phadr.  And  is  this  the  exact  spot  ?  The  little  stream  is  delightfully 
clear  and  bright;  I  can  fancy  that  there  might  be  maidens  playing  near. 

Soc.  I  believe  that  the  spot  is  not  exactly  here,  but  about  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  lower  down,  where  you  cross  to  the  temple  of  Agra,  and  I  think 
that  there  is  some  sort  of  altar  of  Boreas  at  the  place. 

Phadr.  I  don't  recollect ;  but  I  wish  that  you  would  tell  me  whether 
you  believe  this  tale.  .  .  . 

Soc.  I  must  first  know  myself,  as  the  Delphian  inscription  says ;  and 
I  should  be  absurd  indeed  if,  while  I  am  still  in  ignorance  of  myself, 
I  were  to  be  curious  about  that  which  is  not  my  business.  And  there- 
fore I  say  farewell  to  all  this  ;  the  common  opinion  is  enough  for  me. 
For,  as  I  was  saying,  I  want  to  know,  not  about  this,  but  about  myself. 
Am  I  indeed  a  wonder  more  complicated  and  swollen  with  passion  than 
the  serpent  Typho,  or  a  creature  of  a  gentler  and  simpler  sort,  to  whom 
Nature  has  given  a  diviner  and  lowlier  destiny  ?  But  here  let  me  ask 
you,  friend  :  Is  not  this  the  plane-tree  to  which  you  were  conducting  us  ? 

Phcedr.  Yes,  this  is  the  tree. 

Soc.  Yes,  indeed,  and  a  fair  and  shady  resting-place,  full  of  summet 


Plato.  109 

sounds  and  scents.  There  is  the  lofty  and  spreading  plane-tree,  and  the 
agnus  castus  high  and  clustering,  in  the  fullest  blossom  and  the  greatest 
fragrance ;  and  the  stream  which  flows  beneath  the  plane-tree  is  de- 
liciously  cold  to  the  feet.  Judging  from  the  ornaments  and  images,  this 
must  be  a  spot  sacred  to  Ach-e-lo'us  and  the  Nymphs  ;  moreover  there 
is  a  sweet  breeze,  and  the  grasshoppers  chirrup;  and  the  greatest  charm 
of  all  is  the  grass,  like  a  pillow  gently  sloping  to  the  head.  My  dear 
Phsedrus,  you  have  been  an  admirable  guide. 

Phadr.  I  always  wonder  at  you,  Socrates  ;  for  when  you  are  in  the 
country  you  really  are  like  a  stranger  who  is  being  led  about  by  a  guide. 
Do  you  ever  cross  the  border  ?  I  rather  think  that  you  never  venture 
even  outside  the  gates. 

Soc.  Very  true,  my  good  friend  ;  and  I  hope  that  you  will  excuse  me 
when  you  hear  the  reason,  which  is,  that  I  am  a  lover  of  knowledge,  and 
the  men  who  dwell  in  the  city  are  my  teachers,  and  not  the  trees,  or  the 
oountry.  Though  I  do,  indeed,  believe  that  you  have  found  a  spell  with 
which  to  draw  me  out  of  the  city  into  the  country,  as  hungry  cows  are 
led  by  shaking  before  them  a  bait  of  leaves  or  fruit.  For  only  hold  up 
the  bait  of  discourse,  and  you  may  lead  me  all  round  Attica,  and  over 
the  wide  world.  And  now,  having  arrived,  I  intend  to  lie  down,  and  do 
you  choose  any  posture  in  which  you  can  read  best.     Begin. 

What  could  be  more  charming.^  Rural,  but  not  rustic,  is 
the  grace  with  which  Plato  touches  these  things.  Plato  is 
never  rustic.  Urbane  he  is  always.  (Is  it  not  noteworthy 
that  it  is  the  urban  so  frequently  that  is  the  urbane  T) 
Urbanity  is  a  circumfluent  charm  that  forever  enfolds  like  an 
atmosphere  whatever  is  Plato's.  The  thing,  by  the  way, 
which  Phsedrus  reads  to  Socrates,  is  a  speech  on  love  by  the 
orator  Lys'i-as.  Phaedrus  has  just  been  listening  to  this  speech 
from  the  lips  of  the  orator  himself.  He  brings  it  delighted 
to  Socrates ;  but  Socrates  banters  him  on  it — with  a  critical 
irony  that,  apparently,  reveals  the  philosopher's  own  low  esti- 
mate of  the  rhetoric  of  his  much  admired  contemporary. 

The  Gorgias  is  a  noble  dialogue.  But  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  quibbling  in  it.  We  could  not  give  our  readers  a  really 
satisfactory  idea  of  the  barrenness,  nay,  the  perplexing  un- 
worthiness,  of  much  of  what  Plato  here,  as  elsewhere,  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  Socrates,  except  by  making  very  extensive 


no  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


extracts  in  literal  translation  from  the  original  text.  This, 
however,  would  take  up  large  space  to  no  profit  for  the 
reader — save  the  bare  profit  of  learning  how  profitless,  after 
all,  was  often  the  practical  result  of  the  Socratic  interroga- 
tion. Gorgias  was  a  celebrated  sophist  whom  Socrates  brings 
to  confusion  by  involving  him  in  self-contradiction.  The 
frank  truth,  however,  is  that  this  is  done  unfairly.  The 
sophist  is  sophistically  snared.  The  Socratic  method  is  al- 
ways far  greater  than  the  Socratic  result.  By  this  we  of 
course  do  not  mean  the  method  of  sophistry.  For  sophistry 
is  not  the  Socratic  method.  Sophistry  not  seldom  intrudes. 
But  an  intruder  it  is.  It  does  not  keep  the  house.  The 
Socratic  method  is  inquiry,  quest  of  definition,  challenge  of 
accepted  beliefs.  Nothing  has  ever  surpassed,  nothing  could 
surpass,  this  method,  in  the  use  of  a  master,  as  an  instrument 
of  discipline  to  the  mind.  That  Socrates  found  so  much 
truth  in  the  highest  sphere  of  investigation,  should  surprise 
us,  rather  than  that  he  found  no  more.  Would  the  reader 
like  to  know  just  what  is  the  main  drift  of  the  Gorgias  ? 
Strange  to  say,  students  of  the  Gorgias  are  not  agreed.  In 
simple  truth,  the  dialogue  is  in  nothing  more  life-like  than  in 
this,  that  it  goes  whither  the  wind  blows,  steering  to  no  cer- 
tain port.  The  port  that  the  Gorgias  does  reach  is  shown 
in  the  following  lofty  and  pathetic  passage  with  which  the 
dialogue  closes.  Socrates  has  been,  with  consummate  art, 
made  by  Plato  to  foreshadow  his  own  final  doom  of  death ; 
and  then,  framing  a  myth,  he  preaches  from  the  myth  a  moral, 
for  height  of  noble  difficulty  never  perhaps  equaled  any- 
where out  of  Scripture : 

Socrates.  Listen,  then,  as  story-tellers  say,  to  a  very  pretty  lale,  which  I 
dare  say  that  you  may  be  disposed  to  regard  as  a  fable  only,  but  which, 
as  I  believe,  is  a  true  tale,  for  I  mean,  in  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  to 
speak  the  truth :  Homer  tells  us  how  Zeus,  and  Po-sei'don,  and  Pluto, 
divided  the  empire  which  they  inherited  from  their  father.  Now  in  the 
days  of  Cronos  there  was  this  law  respecting  the  destiny  of  man,  which 


Plato,  III 

has  always  existed  and  still  continues  in  heaven,  that  he  who  has  lived 
all  his  life  in  justice  and  holiness  shall  go,  when  he  dies,  to  the  islands 
of  the  blest,  and  dwell  there  in  perfect  happiness  out  of  the  reach  of 
evil ;  but  that  he  who  has  lived  unjustly,  and  impiously,  shall  go  to  the 
house  of  vengeance  and  punishment,  which  is  called  Tartarus.  And  in 
the  time  of  Cronos,  and  even  later  in  the  reign  of  Zeus,  the  judgment 
was  given  on  the  very  day  on  which  the  men  were  to  die  ;  the  judges 
were  alive,  and  the  men  were  alive  ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  the 
judgments  were  not  well  given.  Then  Pluto  and  the  authorities  from 
the  islands  of  the  blest  came  to  Zeus,  and  said  that  the  souls  found  their 
way  to  the  wrong  places.  Zeus  said  :  "  I  shall  put  a  stop  to  this ;  the 
judgments  are  not  well  given,  and  the  reason  is  that  the  judged  have 
their  clothes  on,  for  they  are  alive  ;  and  there  are  many  having  evil  souls 
who  are  appareled  in  fair  bodies,  or  wrapt  round  in  wealth  and  rank, 
and  when  the  day  of  judgment  arrives  many  witnesses  come  forward  and 
witness  on  their  behalf  that  they  have  lived  righteously.  The  judges 
are  awed  by  them,  and  they  themselves  too  have  their  clothes  on  when 
judging,  their  eyes,  and  ears,  and  their  whole  bodies  are  interposed  as  a 
veil  before  their  own  souls.  This  all  stands  in  the  way  ;  there  are  the 
clothes  of  the  judges  and  the  clothes  of  the  judged.  What  is  to  be  done? 
I  will  tell  you  ;  In  the  first  place,  I  will  deprive  men  of  the  foreknowl- 
edge of  death,  which  they  at  present  possess :  that  is  a  commission,  the 
execution  of  which  I  have  already  intrusted  to  Pro-me'theus ;  in  the 
second  place,  they  shall  be  entirely  stripped  before  they  are  judged,  for 
they  shall  be  judged  when  they  are  dead  ;  and  the  judge,  too,  shall  be 
naked,  that  is  to  say,  dead ;  he  with  his  naked  soul  shall  pierce  into  the 
other  naked  soul  as  soon  as  each  man  dies,  he  knows  not  when,  and  is 
deprived  of  his  kindred,  and  has  left  his  brave  attire  in  the  world  above, 
and  then  the  judgment  will  be  just.  I  knew  all  about  this  before  j'ou 
did,  and  therefore  I  have  made  my  sons  judges  ;  two  from  Asia,  Mi'nos 
and  Rhad-a-man'thus,  and  one  from  Europe,  .^'a-cus.  And  these, 
when  they  are  dead,  shall  judge  in  the  meadow  where  three  ways  meet, 
and  out  of  which  two  roads  lead,  one  to  the  islands  of  the  blessed,  and 
the  other  to  Tartarus.  Rhadamanthus  shall  judge  those  who  come  from 
Asia,  and  ^acus  those  who  come  from  Europe.  And  to  Minos  I  shall 
give  the  primacy,  and  he  shall  hold  a  court  of  appeal,  in  case  either  of 
the  two  others  are  in  doubt ;  in  this  way  the  judgment  respecting  the 
last  journey  of  men  will  be  as  just  as  possible." 

This  is  a  tale,  Callicles,  which  I  have  heard  and  believe,  and  from* 
which  I  draw  the  following  inferences  :  Death,  if  I  am  right,  is,  in  the 
first  place,  the  separation  from  one  another  of  two  things,  soul  and  body; 


112  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

this,  and  nothing  else.  And  after  they  are  separated  they  retain  their 
several  characteristics,  which  are  much  the  same  as  in  life  ;  the  body  has 
the  same  nature  and  ways  and  affections,  all  clearly  discernible  ;  for 
example,  he  who,  by  nature,  or  training,  or  both,  was  a  tall  man  while 
he  was  alive,  will  remain  as  he  was,  after  he  is  dead  ;  and  the  fat  man 
will  remain  fat ;  and  so  on  ;  and  the  dead  man,  who  in  life  had  a  fancy 
to  have  flowing  hair,  will  have  flowing  hair.  And  if  he  was  marked 
with  the  whip  and  had  the  prints  of  the  scourge,  or  of  wounds,  in  him 
when  he  was  alive,  you  might  see  the  same  in  the  dead  body  ;  and  if  his 
limbs  were  broken  or  misshapen  when  he  was  alive,  the  same  appear- 
ance would  be  visible  in  the  dead.  And  in  a  word,  whatever  was  the 
habit  of  the  body  during  life,  would  be  distinguishable  after  death,  either 
perfectly,  or  in  a  great  measure,  and  for  a  time.  And  I  should  infer 
that  this  is  equally  true  of  the  soul,  Callicles  ;  when  a  man  is  stripped  of 
the  body,  all  the  natural  or  acquired  affections  of  the  soul  are  laid  open 
to  view.  And  when  they  come  to  the  judge,  as  those  from  Asia  came  to 
Rhadamanthus,  he  places  them  near  him  and  inspects  them  quite  im- 
partially, not  knowing  whose  the  soul  is;  perhaps  he  may  lay  hands  on 
the  soul  of  the  great  king,  or  of  some  other  king  or  potentate,  who  has 
no  soundness  in  him,  but  his  soul  is  marked  with  the  whip,  and  is  full  of 
the  prints  and  scars  of  perjuries,  and  of  wrongs  which  have  been  plastered 
into  him  by  each  action,  and  he  is  all  crooked  with  falsehood  and  im- 
posture, and  has  no  straightness,  because  he  has  lived  without  truth. 
Him  Rhadamanthus  beholds,  full  of  deformity  and  disproportion,  which 
is  caused  by  license  and  luxury  and  insolence  and  incontinence,  and 
dispatches  him  ignominiously  to  his  prison,  and  there  he  undergoes  the 
punishment  which  he  deserves.  .  .  . 

And,  as  I  was  saying,  Rhadamanthus,  when  he  gets  a  soul  of  this 
kind,  knows  nothing  about  him,  neither  who  he  is,  nor  who  his  parents 
are  ;  he  knows  only  that  he  has  got  hold  of  a  villain  ;  and  seeing  this,  he 
stamps  him  as  curable  or  incurable,  and  sends  him  away  to  Tartarus, 
whither  he  goes  and  receives  his  recompense.  Or,  again,  he  looks  with 
admiration  on  the  soul  of  some  just  one  who  has  lived  in  holiness  and 
truth  ;  he  may  have  been  a  private  man  or  not,  and  I  should  say,  Calli- 
cles, that  he  is  most  likely  to  have  been  a  philosopher  who  has  done  his 
own  work,  and  not  troubled  himself  with  the  doings  of  other  men  in  his 
life-time  ;  him  Rhadamanthus  sends  to  the  islands  of  the  blest,  ^acus 
does  the  same  ;  and  they  both  have  sceptres,  and  judge  ;  and  Minos 
is  seated  looking  on,  as  Odysseus  in  Homer  declares  that  he  saw 
him — 

"  Holding  a  sceptre  of  gold,  and  giving  laws  to  the  dead." 


Plato.  113 

Now  I,  Callicles,  am  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  these  things,  and  I  con- 
sider how  I  shall  present  my  soul  whole  and  undefiled  before  the  judge 
in  that  day.  Renouncing  the  honors  at  which  the  world  aims,  I  desire 
only  to  know  the  truth,  and  to  live  as  well  as  I  can,  and  when  the  time 
comes,  to  die.  And  to  the  utmost  of  my  power  I  exhort  all  other  men 
to  do  the  same.  And,  in  return  for  your  exhortation  of  me,  I  exhort 
you  also  to  take  part  in  the  great  combat,  which  is  the  combat  of  life, 
and  greater  than  every  other  earthly  conflict.  And  I  retort  your  re- 
proach of  me,  and  say,  that  you  will  not  be  able  to  help  yourself  when 
the  day  of  trial  and  judgment,  of  which  I  was  speaking,  comes  upon 
you  ;  you  will  go  before  the  judge,  the  son  of  ^E-gi'na,  and  when  you  are 
in  the  hands  of  justice  you  will  gape  and  your  head  will  swim  round, 
just  as  mine  would  in  the  courts  of  this  world,  and  very  likely  some  one 
will  shamefully  box  you  on  the  ears,  and  put  upon  you  every  sort  of 
insult. 

Perhaps  this  may  appear  to  you  to  be  only  an  old  wife's  tale  which  you 
contemn.  And  there  might  be  reason  in  your  contemning  such  tales,  if 
by  searching  we  could  find  out  any  thing  better  or  truer  ;  but  now  you 
see  that  you  and  Polus  and  Gorgias,  who  are  the  three  wisest  of  the 
Greeks  of  our  day,  are  not  able  to  show  that  we  ought  to  live  any  life 
which  does  not  profit  in  another  world  as  well  as  in  this.  And  of  all 
that  has  been  said,  nothing  remains  unshaken  but  the  saying,  that  to  do 
injustice  is  more  to  be  avoided  than  to  suffer  injustice,  and  that  the 
reality  and  not  the  appearance  of  virtue  is  to  be  followed  above  all  things, 
as  well  in  public  as  in  private  life ;  and  that  when  any  one  has  been 
wrong  in  any  thing,  he  is  to  be  chastised,  and  that  the  next  best  thing 
to  a  man  being  just,  is  that  he  should  become  just,  and  be  chastised  and 
punished  ;  also  that  he  should  avoid  all  flattery  of  himself  as  well  as 
of  others  ;  of  the  few  as  of  the  many :  and  rhetoric  and  any  other  art 
should  be  used  by  him,  and  all  his  actions  should  be  done,  always  with 
a  view  to  justice. 

Follow  me,  then,  and  I  will  lead  you  where  you  will  be  happy  in  life 
and  after  death,  as  your  own  argument  shows.  And  never  mind  if  some 
one  despises  you  as  a  fool,  and  insults  you,  if  he  has  a  mind;  let  him 
strike  you,  by  Zeus,  and  do  you  be  of  good  cheer  and  do  not  mind  the 
insulting  blow,  for  you  will  never  come  to  any  harm  in  the  practice  of 
virtue,  if  you  are  a  really  good  and  true  man.  When  we  have  practiced 
virtue  in  common,  we  will  betake  ourselves  to  politics,  if  that  seems 
desirable,  or  we  will  advise  about  whatever  else  may  seem  good  to  us, 
for  we  shall  be  better  able  to  judge  then.  In  our  present  condition  we 
ought  not  to  give  ourselves  airs,  for  even  on  the  most  important  subjects 


114  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

we  are  always  changing  our  minds;  and  what  state  of  education  does 
that  imply  ?  Let  us,  then,  take  this  discourse  as  our  guide,  which  sig- 
nifies to  us  that  the  best  way  of  life  is  to  practice  justice  and  every  virtue 
in  life  and  death.  This  way  let  us  go,  and  in  this  exhort  all  men  to 
follow,  not  in  that  way  in  which  you  trust  and  in  which  you  exhort  me 
to  follow  you;  for  that  way,  Callicles,  is  nothing  worth. 

We  open  the  Parmenides  and  take  at  random  a  short  section 
out  of  the  conversation,  to  let  our  readers  see  for  themselves 
what  we  have  been  meaning  by  our  remarks  on  the  barren- 
ness of  much  that  is  encountered  in  Plato.  Parmenides,  the 
personage  after  whom  the  dialogue  is  named,  was,  at  the  date 
of  the  dialogue,  an  illustrious  and  a  venerable  figure  in  Greek 
philosophy.  Plato  sincerely  reverenced  the  man.  Socrates, 
junior  to  Parmenides,  is  represented  as  treating  that  grave 
and  reverend  senior  freely  indeed,  as  from  his  own  character 
he  must,  but  with  respect.  We  strike  into  the  dialogue  at  the 
point  where  Parmenides  consents — under  pressure  of  unani- 
mous request — to  show  the  company,  a  select  one,  the  exhaust- 
ive process  of  dialectics  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  apply- 
ing to  philosophical  hypotheses.  It  must  in  justice  be  said 
that  Parmenides  enters  upon  the  exercise  in  something  of  the 
spirit  of  one  who  consciously  exhibits  a  piece  of  mere  verbal 
dexterity.  The  subject  is  the  idea  of  unity.  Parmenides 
must  needs  have  a  respondent.  "Shall  I  propose  the  young- 
est .'' "  he  asks.  But  we  proceed  now  in  the  words  of  Plato; 
warning,  meantime,  the  reader  not  curious  to  see  how  void 
of  any  thing  to  reward  curiosity  may  be  page  after  page  of 
hard  logic-chopping,  that  this  next  passage  of  quotation  may 
safely  be  skipped.     Parmenides  speaks  : 

Shall  I  propose  the  youngest?  He  will  be  the  most  likely  to  say 
what  he  thinks,  and  not  raise  difficulties;  and  his  answers  will  give  me 
time  to  breathe.  I  am  the  one  whom  you  mean,  Parmenides,  said  Aris- 
toteles;  for  I  am  the  youngest,  and  at  your  service.  Ask,  and  I  will  an- 
swer. Parmenides  proceeded  :  If  one  is,  he  said,  the  one  cannot  be 
many  ?  Aris.  Impossible.  Par.  Then  the  one  cannot  have  parts,  and 
cannot  be  a  whole  ?    Aris.  How  is  that  ?    Par.  Why,  the  part  would 


Plato.  115 

surely  be  the  part  of  a  whole  ?  Aris.  Yes.  Par.  And  that  of  which  no 
part  is  wanting,  would  be  a  whole  ?  Aris.  Certainly.  Par.  Then,  in 
either  case,  one  would  be  made  up  of  parts,  both  as  being  a  whole,  and 
also  as  having  parts  ?  Aris.  Certainly.  Par.  And,  in  either  case,  the 
one  would  be  many,  and  not  one  ?  Aris.  True.  Par.  But  surely  one 
ought  to  be  not  many,  but  one?  Aris.  Surely.  Par.  Then,  if  one  is  to 
remain  one,  it  will  not  be  a  whole,  and  will  not  have  parts?  Aris.  No. 
Par.  And  if  one  has  no  parts,  it  will  have  neither  beginning,  middle,  nor 
end;  for  these  would  be  parts  of  one  ?  Aris.  Right.  Par.  But  then, 
again,  a  beginning  and  an  end  are  the  limits  of  every  thing.  Aris.  Cer- 
tainly. Par.  Then  the  one,  neither  having  beginning  nor  end,  is  un- 
limited? Aris.  Yes,  unlimited.  Par.  And  therefore  formless,  as  not 
being  able  to  partake  either  of  round  or  straight.  Aris.  How  is  that  ? 
Par.  Why,  the  round  is  that  of  which  all  the  extreme  points  are  equi- 
distant from  the  centre  ?  Aris.  Yes.  Par.  And  the  straight  is  that  of 
which  the  middle  intercepts  the  extremes  ?  Aris.  True.  Par.  Then 
the  one  would  have  parts,  and  would  be  many,  whether  it  partook  of  a 
straight  or  of  a  round  form  ?  Aris.  Assuredly.  Par.  But  having  no 
parts,  one  will  be  neither  straight  nor  round  ?  Aris.  Right.  Par.  Then, 
being  of  such  a  nature,  one  cannot  be  in  any  place,  for  it  cannot  be 
either  in  another  or  in  itself.  Aris.  How  is  that  ?  Par.  Because,  if  one 
be  in  another,  it  will  be  encircled  in  that  other  in  which  it  is  contained, 
and  will  touch  it  in  many  places;  but  that  which  is  one  and  indivisible, 
and  does  not  partake  of  a  circular  nature,  cannot  be  touched  by  a  circle 
in  many  places.  Aris.  Certainly  not.  Par.  And  one  being  in  itself, 
will  also  contain  itself,  and  cannot  be  other  than  one,  if  in  itself ;  for 
nothing  can  be  in  any  thing  which  does  not  contain  it.  Aris.  Impossi- 
ble. Par.  But,  then,  is  not  that  which  contains  other  than  that  which 
is  contained?  for  the  same  whole  cannot  at  once  be  affected  actively  and 
passively,  and  one  will  thus  be  no  longer  one,  but  two  ?  Aris.  True. 
Par.  Then  one  cannot  be  anywhere,  either  in  itself  or  in  another? 
At  is.  No. 

We  do  not  know  how  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  our  readers 
would  like  to  see.  Out  of  the  Parmenides,  however,  alone, 
we  could,  we  feel  sure,  satisfy  the  desire  of  the  most  desir- 
ous. There  are  in  it  not  less  than  sixty  stretched-out  pages 
of  uninterrupted  hair-splitting — uninterrupted,  mark,  we  say 
— not  distinguishable  in  point  of  fruit  or  juice  from  what  our 
readers  have  now  seen.     The  Parmenides,  taken  as  a  whole, 


ii6  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

is  as  good  a  specimen  as  any  reader  could  wish  to  possess  of 
a  perfectly  sterile,  while  consummately  well-written,  exercise 
in  metaphysics. 

And  now  for  the  farewell  to  Socrates,  a  man  undoubtedly 
to  us  moderns  the  most  engaging  figure  of  the  ancient  Gre- 
cian world.  Of  the  five  chief  pieces  that  relate  to  Socrates 
dying,  or  about  to  die,  the  Me'no  is  the  most  remotely  and 
obscurely  related  to  that  topic.  The  personage  from  whom 
the  dialogue  takes  its  name  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  such  of 
our  readers  as  are  familiar  with  Xenophon's  Anabasis.  He  is 
one  of  the  four  generals  who  were  treacherously  captured  by 
the  Persian  Tissaphernes,  "  A  Thessalian  Alcibiades,"  Mr. 
Jowett  calls  Meno. 

The  Euthyphro  is  next  in  order  to  the  Meno.  This  dia- 
logue discusses  the  true  nature  of  piety.  There  is,  through- 
out what  Socrates  in  this  dialogue  says,  a  hardly  disguised 
tone  of  reference  to  himself  as  accused  of  impiety. 

The  Apology  purports  to  be  the  speech  of  Socrates  to  his 
judges,  pronounced  partly  before  the  conviction,  but  partly 
also  after,  and  then  ostensibly  in  mitigation  or  commutation 
of  his  sentence  to  death.  The  whole  piece  is  of  surpassing 
interest,  but  too  long  to  be  here  presented  entire.  It  is  al- 
ready accessible  to  the  public  in  a  form  at  once  for  literary 
quality  so  admirable  and  for  price  so  moderate,  that  we  need 
hardly  regret  the  necessity  of  omitting  it  from  these  pages. 
A  little  volume,  entitled  "  Socrates,"  published  by  Messrs. 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  contains  it,  and  with  it  enough  more 
of  the  matter  belonging  to  that  group  of  dialogues  which  we 
are  at  present  considering,  to  furnish  readers  with  a  most 
alluring  picture  of  the  martyr  philosopher  of  antiquity. 
The  "  Socrates,"  by  the  way,  would  make  a  much  better 
Sunday-school  book  than  probably  would  on  examination  be 
found  to  be  many  another  volume  now  having  place  in  the 
average  Sunday-school  library.  A  second  volume,  prepared 
by  the  same  hand,  entitled  "A  Day  in  Athens  with  Socrates," 


Plato.  117 

may  also  be  commended  to  oui  readers.  The  Apology  was 
spoken  in  vain.  Socrates  was  condemned  to  drink  the  hem- 
lock. While  he  waits  in  prison  till  he  may  lawfully  die — 
for  a  certain  sacred  ship  must  first  return  from  Delos — he 
is  visited  there  by  his  friend  Crito,  with  a  proposal  that  he 
make  an  escape.  The  dialogue  entitled  Crito  gives  us  the 
conversation  mat  ensued  between  the  two.  We  have  no 
means  of  knowing  whether  the  incident  of  this  visit  and 
proposal  really  occurred  or  not.  But  nothing  can  harm  the 
serene  and  immortal  beauty  of  the  representation.  We  use 
for  our  extracts  from  the  Crito  the  little  volume  already  al- 
luded to,  "  Socrates."     Here  is  the  opening  of  the  dialogue : 

Socrates.  Why  have  you  come  at  this  time  of  day,  Crito  ?  Is  it  not 
still  quite  early  ? 

Crito.  It  is  early  indeed. 

S.  About  what  time  is  it  ? 

C.  Day  is  just  beginning  to  dawn. 

S.  I  wonder  that  the  keeper  of  the  prison  was  willing  to  answer  your 
knock. 

C.  He  is  used  to  me  now,  Socrates,  I  have  been  here  so  often  ;  and 
besides,  he  has  received  some  kindness  at  my  hands. 

S.  Have  you  just  come,  or  have  you  been  here  some  time  ? 

C.  Some  little  time. 

S.  Then  why  did  you  not  wake  me  up  at  once,  instead  of  sitting  by 
in  silence  ? 

C.  By  Zeus,  O  Socrates,  I  for  my  part  should  not  have  wished  to  be 
awakened  to  such  a  state  of  sleeplessness  and  sorrow.  But  I  have  for 
some  time  been  looking  at  you  with  wonder  to  see  you  sleep  so  serenely  ; 
and  I  purposely  did  not  awaken  you,  that  you  might  pass  the  remainder 
of  your  time  as  peacefully  as  possible.  Often  before  in  the  course  of 
your  life  have  I  esteemed  you  fortunate  in  having  such  a  nature,  but 
never  so  much  as  now,  in  this  present  misfortune,  seeing  how  easily  and 
calmly  you  bear  it. 

S.  But  do  you  not  see,  Crito,  that  it  would  be  quite  inconsistent  in 
one  of  my  age  to  be  disturbed  at  having  to  die  now  ? 

C.  But  when  others,  Socrates,  of  the  same  age  are  overtaken  by  like 
misfortunes,  their  age  does  not  prevent  their  being  distressed  at  the  fate 
before  them. 


ii8  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


S,  That  is  true.     But  why  have  you  come  so  early  ? 

C.  To  bring  bad  news,  Socrates  ;  though  not  for  you,  it  seems.  But 
for  myself  and  for  all  your  friends  it  is  indeed  bitter  and  grievous  ;  and 
I,  above  all  others,  shall  find  it  most  hard  to  bear. 

S.  What  is  it  ?  Has  the  ship  come  from  Delos,  on  whose  arrival  I 
am  to  die? 

C.  She  has  not  actually  arrived,  but  I  suppose  she  will  be  here  to- 
day, to  judge  from  tidings  brought  by  certain  persons  who  have  just 
come  from  Sunium  and  report  that  they  left  her  there.  It  is  evident, 
from  what  they  say,  that  she  will  be  here  to-day,  and  thus  to-morrow, 
Socrates,  your  life  must  needs  end. 

S.  But  this,  Crito,  is  for  the  best.  If  it  please  the  gods,  so  be  it. 
I  do  not  think,  however,  that  the  ship  will  arrive  to-day. 

C.  Whence  do  you  infer  this  ? 

S.  I  will  tell  you.  I  am  to  die  on  the  morrow  of  the  day  on  which 
the  ship  arrives. 

C.  So  say  they  who  order  these  things,  you  know. 

S.  Well,  then,  I  do  not  think  she  will  arrive  on  this  coming  day,  but 
on  the  following  one.  I  infer  this  from  a  certain  dream  which  I  had 
this  very  night,  only  a  little  while  ago.  It  was  by  some  lucky  chance 
that  you  did  not  awaken  me  earlier. 

C,  What  was  your  dream  ? 

S.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  woman  in  white  raiment,  graceful  and  fair 
to  look  upon,  came  toward  me,  and,  calling  me  by  name,  said  : 

"  On  the  third  day,  Socrates,  thou  shalt  reach  the  coast  of  fertile 
Phthia." 

C.  What  a  strange  dream,  Socrates! 

.S".  But  clear  withal,  Crito,  it  seems  to  me. 

C.  Only  too  clear.  But,  O  beloved  Socrates,  be  persuaded  by  me 
while  there  is  yet  time,  and  save  yourself. 

There  follows  hereupon  a  considerable  stretch  of  conversa- 
tion between  Socrates  and  Crito,  in  which  Crito  urges  every 
inducement,  (including  offer  of  money  and  personal  help,) 
with  the  condemned  man,  to  seek  safety  in  escape,  and 
Socrates  gently  but  firmly  puts  every  inducement  aside. 
Socrates  at  length  says  : 

S.  Consider  it  thus.  Suppose,  as  we  were  on  the  point  of  nmning 
away,  or  whatever  else  you  may  call  it,  the  laws  and  the  state  should 
come  and  say:  "  Tell  us,  Socrates,  what  is  this  that  you  think  of  doing  ? 


Plato.  1 1 9 

Are  you  not,  by  the  deed  which  you  are  about  to  undertake,  thinking  to 
destroy,  so  far  as  in  you  lies,  the  laws  and  the  whole  state  ?  For  you 
do  not  deem  it  possible,  do  you,  that  that  state  can  survive  and  not  be 
overthrown  in  which  the  decisions  of  the  courts  do  not  prevail,  but  are 
by  private  individuals  set  aside  and  brought  to  naught  ?  "  How  shall 
we  reply,  Crito,  to  this,  and  to  other  like  questions  ?  Any  one,  above 
all  an  orator,  might  have  much  to  say  in  behalf  of  the  law  we  are  break- 
ing, which  commands  that  judgments  once  decreed  shall  be  decisive. 
Or  shall  we  make  answer  that  the  state  has  injured  us  and  not  given 
righteous  judgment  ?     Shall  we  say  this,  or  what  shall  we  say? 

C.  This,  by  Zeus,  O  Socrates. 

S.  What  then,  if  the  law  answer  :  "And  is  this  what  was  agreed  be- 
tween us,  Socrates,  or  was  it  not  rather  that  you  should  abide  by  the 
judgments  decreed  by  the  state  ?  .  .  . 

"In  this  very  trial  you  were  at  liberty,  if  you  had  wished,  to  propose 
the  penalty  of  exile,  so  that  what  you  are  now  attempting  to  do  against 
the  will  of  the  city,  you  could  then  have  done  with  her  consent.  You 
boasted  at  that  time  that  if  you  had  to  die  you  would  not  be  distressed, 
for  you  preferred,  as  you  said,  death  to  exile.  But  now  you  feel  no 
shame  at  the  recollaction  of  your  own  words,  nor  have  you  any  rever- 
ence for  us,  the  lays,  since  you  are  trying  to  destroy  us,  and  are 
acting  as  would  the  iieanest  slave,  tiying  to  run  away  in  defiance  of  the 
covenants  and  agreements  according  to  which  you  had  pledged  yourself 
to  be  governed  as  a  citizen.   .   .  . 

"  Thus  you  will  confirm  the  opinion  of  your  judges,  so  that  your  sen- 
tence will  appear  to  have  been  justly  awarded.  For  whosoever  is  a  cor- 
rupter of  the  laws  is  very  sure  to  appear  also  as  a  corrupter  of  young  and 
thoughtless  men.  .  .  .  What  language  will  you  use,  O  Socrates?  Will 
you  affirm,  as  you  have  done  here,  that  virtue  and  justice  and  institutions 
and  laws  are  the  things  most  precious  to  men.  .  .  .  All  those  discourses 
concerning  justice  and  other  virtue — what  is  to  become  of  them  ?  Or  is  it 
perhaps  on  account  of  your  children  that  you  wish  to  live,  so  that  you 
may  bring  them  up  and  educate  them  ?  But  what  then?  Will  you  take 
them  to  Thessaly,  and  there  bring  them  up  and  educate  them,  making 
them  aliens  to  their  country,  that  this  also  they  may  have  to  thank  you 
for?  Or  perhaps  you  think  that  they  will  be  better  cared  for  and  educa- 
ted here  in  Athens  for  your  being  alive,  even  if  you  are  not  living  with 
them.  Your  friends,  you  say,  will  look  after  them.  But  do  you  suppose 
that,  while  they  will  do  this  if  you  depart  for  Thessaly,  they  w41I  not 
if  you  depart  for  Hades  ?  Assuredly,  if  they  who  call  themselves  your 
friends  are  good  for  any  thing,  you  must  believe  that  they  will. 


I20  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

"  But,  Socrates,  be  persuaded  by  us  who  have  brought  you  up,  and  do 
not  place  your  children  or  your  life  or  any  thing  else  above  the  right ; 
that,  when  you  have  arrived  in  Hades,  you  may  have  all  these  things  to 
urge  in  your  defense  before  those  who  reign  there.  For  neither  in  this 
life  does  it  appear  better  or  more  just  or  more  holy  for  you  or  for  any  one 
belonging  to  you  thus  to  act,  nor  when  you  shall  have  arrived  in  the  other 
world  will  it  be  to  your  advantage.  As  it  is  now,  if  you  depart  hence, 
you  go  as  one  wronged,  not  by  us,  the  laws,  but  by  men  ;  but  if  you  take 
to  flight,  thus  disgracefully  rendering  back  injustice  and  injury  by  break- 
ing the  covenants  and  agreements  which  you  yourself  made  with  us,  and 
working  evil  against  those  whom  least  of  all  you  ought  to  injure — your 
own  self  as  well  as  your  friends,  your  country,  and  ourselves — we  shall 
be  angry  with  you  here  while  you  are  yet  alive,  and  our  brothers,  the  laws 
in  Hades,  will  not  receive  you  kindly,  knowing  that  you  sought,  so  far 
as  in  you  lay,  to  destroy  us.  So  do  not,  we  beg  you,  let  Crito  persuade 
you  to  follow  his  advice  rather  than  ours." 

These,  you  must  know,  my  dear  friend  Crito,  are  the  words  which  I 
seem  to  hear,  even  as  the  Corybantes  imagine  that  they  hear  the  sound 
of  the  flutes  ;  and  their  echo  resounding  within  me  makes  me  unable  to 
hear  aught  beside.  Know,  therefore,  that  if  you  say  any  thing  contrary 
to  this,  you  will  but  speak  in  vain.  Nevertheless,  if  you  think  that  any 
thing  will  be  gained  thereby,  say  on. 

C.  No,  Socrates,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say. 

S.  Then  so  let  it  rest,  Crito ;  and  let  us  follow  in  this  way,  since  in 
this  way  it  is  that  God  leads. 

With  excellent  taste  and  judgment,  Plato  tells  the  story  of 
the  end  in  a  conversation  made  to  take  place  after  the  lapse 
of  an  interval  of  time  from  the  actual  occurrence  of  the  in- 
cidents related.  The  name  of  the  dialogue  in  which  this  is 
done  is  the  Phgedo. 

The  distance  of  time  interposed  has  the  effect  to  subdue  and 
soften  the  outlines  of  the  action.  The  baldness  and  harsh- 
ness that  might  otherwise  have  been  felt,  are  quite  enchanted 
away  from  the  scene.  Nothing  is  left  to  infuse  one  element 
of  sharp  or  crude  into  the  exquisite  sweet  pathos  of  the 
marvelous  story.  What  wonder  Cicero  could  never  read  the 
story  without  tears  }  Scarce  to  be  wondered  at,  if,  on  read- 
ing the  Phaedo,  Socrates's  disciple  Cle-om'bro-tus  did  indeed, 


Plato.  121 


as  is  related  of  him,  cast  himself  into  the  sea  in  a  fit  of  vain 
remorse  that  he  was  so  wanting  to  the  master  in  his  ex- 
tremity, as  not  to  take  the  trouble  of  being  present  with 
him  at  the  closing  scene.  The  contrast  and  the  resem- 
blance warrant  the  celebrated  remark  of  the  French  in- 
fidel, Rousseau  :  "  Socrates  died  like  a  philosopher,  Jesus 
Christ  died  like  a  God."  The  present  writer  will  never  lose 
from  his  mind  the  impression  received  one  midnight  hour 
when  alone  in  his  room  he  read,  for  the  first  time,  in  the 
original  Greek  of  the  Phaedo,  the  pathetic,  pathetically  noble, 
pathetically  insufficient,  argument  of  Socrates  for  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul.     What  a  reach  after,  what  a  coming  short 

of,  the  truth ! 

So  runs  my  dream,  but  what  am  I  ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night, 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light, 
And  with  no  language  but  a  cry! 

Such  might  well  have  been,  such  in  efi"ect  was,  the  swan's 
utterance  of  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath  with  which  dying 
Socrates  took  his  brave  farewell  of  the  here  and  sent  for- 
ward his  hail  to  the  hereafter. 

But  we  must  not  talk  further  about  what  our  readers  have 
yet  to  see.  And  how  shall  we  show  them  the  Phaedo  in  its 
just  light,  without  letting  them  see  it  all?  But  this,  of  course, 
is  out  of  the  question.  The  scenery,  the  reliefs,  the  transi- 
tions, the  exchanges  of  question  and  reply,  the  slow  and 
gradual  growth  of  the  atmosphere  that  envelops  all  and  sets 
life  as  into  a  picture — these  things  we  have  to  lose  and,  los- 
ing these,  we  run  the  risk  of  losing  the  Phaedo.  The  gra- 
cious play  of  affectionate  irony  that  beautifies  the  *'  coming 
bulk  of  death" — this  disappears,  and  what  a  difference  !  The 
groping  of  hands  that  feel  after  immortality  in  the  darkness — 
what  shall  compensate  for  that  effect  withdrawn .?  But  there 
is  no  help  for  us,  and — lest  we  grieve  long  enough  to  take  up 
the  room   that  might   have   been   so   used  as  to    forestall 


122  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

occasion  of  grieving — here  is  the  conclusion  to  the  most  pleas- 
ing and  most  touching  of  all  Plato's  dialogues,  the  Phsedo. 
We  use  once  more  the  translation  furnished  in  "  Socrates:  " 

You,  too,  Simmias  and  Cebes,  and  all  the  rest  of  you,  must  each  one 
day  take  this  journey  ;  "  but  now,"  as  a  tragic  poet  would  say,  "  me  the 
voice  of  fate  is  calling,"  and  it  is  well-nigh  time  that  I  should  think  of 
the  bath  ;  for  it  seems  better  for  me  to  bathe  before  drinking  the  poison, 
and  not  give  the  women  the  trouble  of  washing  my  body. 

When  he  had  thus  spoken,  Crito  said:  "Very  well,  Socrates  ;  but 
what  charge  have  you  to  give  me  or  our  friends  here,  about  your  chil- 
dren or  any  thing  else,  which  we  may  most  gratify  you  by  fulfilling  ?  " 

"  Only  what  I  have  always  said,  Crito,"  answered  he,  "  nothing  new  ; 
that  if  you  will  take  heed  to  yourselves,  you  will,  whatever  you  do, 
render  me  and  mine  and  your  own  selves  a  service,  even  if  you  do  not 
make  any  promises  now.  But  if  you  do  not  take  heed  to  yourselves,  and 
will  not  try  to  follow  in  the  path  which  I  have  now  and  heretofore 
pointed  out,  you  will  bring  nothing  to  pass,  no  matter  how  many  or 
how  solemn  promises  you  make." 

*'We  will  indeed  try  our  best,"  said  he  ;  "but  how  do  you  wish  us 
to  bury  you  ?  " 

"Just  as  you  please,"  he  answered,  "  if  you  only  get  hold  of  me,  and 
do  not  let  me  escape  you."  And  quietly  laughing  and  glancing  at  us, 
he  said : 

"  I  cannot  persuade  Crito,  my  friends,  that  this  Socrates  who  is  now 
talking  with  you  and  laying  down  each  one  of  these  propositions  is  my 
very  self ;  for  his  mind  is  full  of  the  thought  that  I  am  he  whom  he  is 
to  see  in  a  little  while  as  a  corpse  ;  and  so  he  asks  how  he  shall  bury 
me.  Thus,  that  long  argument  of  mine,  the  object  of  which  was  to 
show  that  after  I  have  drunk  the  poison  I  shall  be  among  you  no  longer, 
but  shall  go  away  to  certain  joys  prepared  for  the  blessed,  seems  to  him 
but  idle  talk,  uttered  only  to  keep  up  your  spirits  as  well  as  my  own."  .  .  . 

Thus  saying  he  got  up  and  went  into  another  room  to  bathe,  and 
Crito  followed  him  ;  but  us  he  requested  to  stay  behind.  We  remained, 
therefore,  talking  over  with  one  another  and  inquiring  into  what  had 
been  said  ;  ever  and  again  coming  back  to  the  misfortune  which  had 
befallen  us  ;  for  we  looked  upon  ourselves  as  doomed  to  go  through  the 
rest  of  life  like  orphans,  bereft  of  a  father. 

After  he  had  bathed,  his  children  were  brought  to  him — for  he  had 
three  sons,  two  very  young,  and  one  who  was  older — and  the  women  of 
his  household  also  arrived.     And  having  talked  with  them,  in  the  pres- 


Plato.  123 

ence  of  Crito,  and  given  them  all  his  directions,  he  bade  them  depart, 
and  himself  returned  to  us.  It  was  now  near  sunset,  for  he  had  spent  a 
long  time  in  the  inner  room.  He  came  then  and  sat  down  with  us,  but 
he  did  not  speak  much  after  this.  And  the  servant  of  the  Eleven  came 
and  standing  by  him  said  :  "  I  shall  not  have  to  reproach  you,  O  Socra- 
tes, as  I  have  others,  with  being  enraged  and  cursing  me  when  I  an- 
nounce to  them,  by  order  of  the  magistrates,  that  they  must  drink  the 
poison;  but  during  this  time  of  your  imprisonment  I  have  learned  to 
know  you  as  the  noblest  and  gentlest  and  best  man  of  all  that  have  ever 
come  here,  and  so  I  am  sure  now  that  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  ; 
for  you  know  the  real  authors  of  this,  and  will  blame  them  alone.  And 
now — for  you  know  what  it  is  I  have  come  to  announce — farewell,  and 
try  to  bear  as  best  you  may  the  inevitable."  And  upon  this,  bursting  into 
tears,  he  turned  and  went  away;  and  Socrates,  looking  after  him,  said : 

"May  it  fare  well  with  you  also  !  We  will  do  what  you  have  bidden." 
And  to  us  he  added  :  "  How  courteous  the  man  is  !  The  whole  time  I 
have  been  here  he  has  been  constantly  coming  to  see  me,  and  has  fre- 
quently talked  to  me,  and  shown  himself  to  be  the  kindest  of  men  ;  and 
see  how  feelingly  he  weeps  for  me  now!  But  come,  Crito,  we  must 
obey  him.  So  let  the  poison  be  brought,  if  it  is  already  mixed  ;  if  not, 
let  the  man  mix  it." 

And  Crito  said :  **  But,  Socrates,  the  sun,  I  think,  is  still  upon  the 
mountains,  and  has  not  yet  gone  down.  Others,  I  know,  have  not 
taken  the  poison  till  very  late,  and  have  feasted  and  drunk  right  heartily, 
some  even  enjoying  the  company  of  their  intimates,  long  after  receiving 
the  order.     So  do  not  hasten,  for  there  is  yet  time." 

But  Socrates  said  :  "  It  is  very  natural,  Crito,  that  those  of  whom  you 
speak  should  do  this,  for  they  think  to  gain  thereby;  but  it  is  just  as 
natural  that  I  should  not  do  so,  for  I  do  not  think  that,  by  drinking  the 
poison  a  little  later,  I  should  gain  any  thing  more  than  a  laugh  at  my 
own  expense,  for  being  greedy  of  life  and  *  stingy  when  nothing  is  left.' 
So  go  and  do  as  I  desire." 

At  these  words  Crito  motioned  to  the  servant  standing  by,  who  then 
went  out,  and  after  some  time  came  back  with  the  man  who  was  to  give 
the  poison,  which  he  brought  mixed  in  a  cup.  And  Socrates,  seeing  the 
man,  said  : 

"  Well,  my  friend,  I  must  ask  you,  since  you  have  had  experience  in 
these  matters,  what  I  ought  to  do?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  he,  "  but  walk  about  after  drinking  until  you  feel  a 
heaviness  in  your  legs,  and  then,  if  you  lie  down,  the  poison  will  take 
effect  of  itself." 


124  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

With  this,  he  handed  the  cup  to  Socrates,  who  took  it  right  cheerfully, 
O  Echecrates,  [E-kelc'ra-tes,]  without  tremor,  or  change  of  color  or 
countenance,  and,  looking  at  the  man  from  under  his  brows  with  that 
intent  gaze  peculiar  to  himself,  said:  "  What  say  you  to  pouring  a  liba- 
tion-from  this  cup  to  one  of  the  gods  ?    Is  it  allowed  or  not  ?  " 

"  We  prepare,  Socrates,"  answered  he,  "  only  just  so  much  as  we  think 
is  the  right  quantity  to  drink." 

*'  I  understand,"  said  he  ;  "but  prayer  to  the  gods  is  surely  allowed, 
and  must  be  made,  that  it  may  fare  well  with  me  on  my  journey  yonder. 
For  this,  then,  I  pray,  and  so  be  it !  " 

Thus  speaking,  he  put  the  cup  to  his  lips,  and  right  easily  and  blithely 
drank  it  off.  Now  most  of  us  had  until  then  been  able  to  keep  back  our 
tears  ;  but  when  we  saw  him  drinking,  and  then  that  he  had  finished 
the  draught,  we  could  do  so  no  longer.  In  spite  of  myself,  my  tears 
burst  forth  in  floods,  so  that  I  covered  my  face  and  wept  aloud,  not  for 
him  assuredly,  but  for  my  own  fate  in  being  deprived  of  such  a  friend. 
Now  Crito,  even  before  I  gave  way,  had  not  been  able  to  restrain  his 
tears,  and  so  had  moved  away.  But  A-pol-lo-do'rus  all  along  had  not 
ceased  to  weep ;  and  now,  when  he  burst  into  loud  sobs,  there  was  not 
one  of  those  present  who  was  not  overcome  by  his  tears  and  distress, 
except  Socrates  himself.  But  he  asked :  * '  What  are  you  doing,  you 
strange  people  ?  My  chief  reason  for  sending  away  the  women  was,  that 
we  might  be  spared  such  discordance  as  this  ;  for  I  have  heard  that  a 
man  ought  to  die  in  solemn  stillness.  So  pray  be  composed,  and  re- 
strain yourselves!  " 

On  hearing  this,  we  were  ashamed,  and  forced  back  our  tears.  And 
he  walked  about  until  he  said  that  he  began  to  feel  a  heaviness  in  his 
legs,  and  then  he  lay  down  on  his  back,  as  he  had  been  told  to  do. 
Thereupon  the  man  who  had  given  the  poison,  taking  hold  of  him,  ex- 
amined from  time  to  time  his  feet  and  legs,  and  then,  pressing  one  foot 
hard,  asked  if  he  felt  it,  to  which  he  answered.  No  ;  and  after  that,  again 
his  legs,  and  then  still  higher,  showing  us  the  while  that  he  was  getting 
cold  and  stiff.  Then  Socrates  himself  did  the  same,  and  said  that  by  the 
time  the  poison  had  reached  his  heart  he  should  be  gone.  And  now  he 
was  cold  nearly  up  to  his  middle,  when,  uncovering  his  face,  for  he  had 
covered  it  up,  he  said — and  these  were  his  last  words — "  Crito,  we  owe 
a  cock  to  iEsculapius.     Pay  the  debt,  and  do  not  neglect  it." 

•'  It  shall  be  done,  Socrates,"  said  he.  "  But  think  if  you  have  noth- 
ing else  to  say." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  question ;  but  after  a  moment  Socrates 
stirred,  and  when  the  man  uncovered  him,  we  saw  that  his  face  was  set. 


Plato.  125 

Crito,  on  seeing  this,  closed  his  mouth  and  eyes.  Such  was  the  end,  O 
Echecrates,  of  our  friend,  a  man  whom  we  may  well  call,  of  all  men 
known  to  us  of  our  day,  the  best,  and  besides  the  wisest  and  the  most 
just. 

What  a  gentle  ending — told  how  gently,  but  with  what 
power  of  pathos  gently  told — to  that  matchless  pagan  life ! 
For  such  a  case,  shall  we  not  at  least  "faintly  trust  the  larger 
hope  ?  " 

Plato  is  so  large  a  round  that  it  needs  much  shifting  of 
one's  point  of  view  to  survey  him  fully.  We  have,  for  in- 
stance, not  said  a  word  about  his  doctrine,  or  his  fancy — it 
possibly  was  no  more  than  a  fancy — of  reminiscence  so- 
called.  This  was  one  of  his  lemmas  adduced  in  proof  of 
human  immortality.  The  process  of  learning,  he  thought, 
perhaps  really  was  only  a  process  of  recollecting  what  we 
knew  in  a  former  state  of  being.  Our  birth  was  but  a  sleeji 
and  a  forgetting,  as  Wordsworth  sings  it — a  forgetting  o^ 
what,  known  once,  is  afterward,  upon  occasion,  through  life, 
brought  back  to  our  remembrance.  Wordsworth's  Ode  on 
Intimations  of  Immortality  is  to  be  read  in  the  light  of  this 
Platonic  speculation. 

Do  our  readers,  some  of  them,  remember  that  striking 
expression  of  Tennyson  in  the  In  Memoriam, 

Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast. 
And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die  ? 

It  is  a  Platonic  conception,  this  of  a  lower  nature  couching 
within  us,  like  a  wild  beast  ready  to  tear  and  raven. 

Platonism  had  a  remarkable  revival  in  Neo-Platonism 
(New  Platonism)  long  after  the  great  teacher's  death.  This 
was  when  Alexandria  had  become  the  transferred  chief  seat 
of  Greek  letters.  Neo-Platonism  exercised  a  powerful  in- 
fluence for  many  centuries  on  Christian  theology.  That 
influence  is,  perhaps,  not  yet  spent.  About  a  century  ago, 
Thomas  Taylor,  known  in  literary  history  as  "the  Platonist," 


126 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


presented  to  the  world  the  example  of  an  Englishman,  born 
so  to  speak  out  of  due  time  and  out  of  due  place,  swearing 
in  the  words  of  Plato. 

That  Zeus,  if  he  had  spoken  Greek,  would  have  spoken 
it  like  Plato,  was  the  sentence  of  antiquity.  Praise  could 
not  further  go.  Though  some  might  be  inclined  to  place 
Demosthenes  before  him,  Plato  will,  no  doubt,  always  re- 
main in  general  consent  the  greatest  prose  writer  of  ancient 
Greece. 


yEschylus. 


127 


POET  R  Y. 


.^SCHYLUS. 

From  philosophy,  treated  as  Plato  treats  philosophy,  the 
transition  is  easy  to  poetry.     Plato  is  a  poet  in  prose. 

It  is  not  without  reluctance  that  we  have  omitted  Plato's 
successor,  Aristotle,  from  our  course.  But  we  had  reasons 
both  to  justify  and  to  compel  the  omission.  In  the  first 
place,  the  laws  of  space  are  peremptory.  But,  in  the  second 
place,  and  the  third,  Aristotle  is  rarely  included  in  the  ordi- 
nary college  reading  of  Greek ;  and  he  is,  though  a  great, 
a  not  popular,  author.  Besides,  for  a  fourth  reason — were 
there  need  of  a  fourth — we  might  add  that  Aristotle  belongs 
but  doubtfully  to  what  is  deemed  the  strictly  classic  age  of 
Greek  letters. 

But  we  now  offer  a  compromise,  and  gratify  at  once  our- 
selves and  our  readers.  Aristotle  was 
not  a  poet,  except  in  a  few  notable 
experiments  of  his  genius ;  but  he  dis- 
cussed poetry,  and  he  discussed  it  phil- 
osophically. Between,  therefore,  that 
form  of  literature, -namely,  philosophy, 
which  we  have  just  dismissed,  and  that 
form  of  literature,  namely,  poetry,  upon 
which,  in  the  present  chapter,  we  enter, 
the  name  of  Aristotle  will  constitute  a 
highly  suitable  term  of  connection. 

Without  saying  more  of  Aristotle  in  aristotle. 

general  than  that  he  was  pupil  to   Plato,  and  that  in  influ- 
ence on  human  thought  he  equaled  and  rivaled  his  master, 


128  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

we  give-here,  by  way  of  introduction  to  our  treatment  of 
Greek  poetry  exemplified  in  the  great  tragic  writers,  some 
extracts  bearing  on  the  subject,  from  this  eminent  philosoph- 
ical critic's  treatise  entitled  Poetic.  We  begin  with  his 
celebrated  definition  of  tragedy.  Here  it  is,  in  awkwardly 
literal  translation  : 

Tragedy,  therefore,  is  an  imitation  of  a  worthy  or  illustrious  and  per- 
fect action,  possessing  magnitude,  in  pleasing  language,  using  separately 
the  several  species  of  imitation  in  its  parts,  by  men  acting,  and  not 
through  narration,  through  pity,  and  fear,  effecting  a  purification  from 
such  like  passions. 

If  this  definition  of  tragedy  seems  to  any  among  our  readers 
less  luminous  than  were  to  be  wished,  let  such  persons  console 
themselves  with  the  reflection  that  so  it  has  seemed  likewise 
to  all  students  of  Aristotle — except,  perhaps,  those  students 
who  love  obscurity,  and  who  would  rather  guess  a  puzzle 
than  get  a  thought.  However,  compare  the  following  form 
of  translation,  supplied  by  Mr.  Symonds,  in  his  work  on  the 
Greek  poets.  Mr.  Symonds  has  ventured  to  be  not  so  strictly 
literal,  and  he  has  succeeded  in  being  more  perspicuous — 
perhaps  by  being  also  less  exact : 

Tragedy  is  an  imitation  of  an  action  that  is  weighty,  complete,  and 
of  a  proper  magnitude.  It  proceeds  by  action,  and  not  by  narration ; 
and  it  effects,  through  pity  and  terror,  a  purgation  of  the  like  passions 
in  the  minds  of  the  spectators. 

Possibly  the  thing  itself — Greek  tragedy  we  mean — in 
specimens,  will  presently  throw  backward  a  welcome  light 
for  our  readers  on  Aristotle's  definition  of  the  thing. 

We  go  on  with  our  extracts  from  Aristotle.  In  doing  so, 
we  happily  are  able  to  use  a  translation  made  beautifully 
clear  by  an  art  of  Greek  scholarship  and  of  English  expres- 
sion that  one  would  like  to  have  had  applied  to  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  entire  circle  of  Aristotle's  works.  We  quote 
from  Colonel  Mure's  "  History  of  Greek  Literature  :  " 


yEschylus.  129 


In  epic,  as  in  tragic  poetry,  the  subject  must  be  dramatically  treated, 
and  concentrated  around  a  single  action,  united  and  complete,  with 
beginning,  middle,  and  end,  so  as  to  come  home  to  the  apprehension 
with  the  effect  of  one  entire  living  being.  It  is  not  sufficient,  as  in 
ordinary  prose  narrative,  for  the  connection  of  different  events  under 
one  head,  that  the  mere  time  of  their  occurrence  should  be  the  same, 
while  there  may  be,  in  other  respects,  no  bond  of  union  between  them  ; 
or  that  they  should  be  narrated  in  continuous  succession,  although  in 
respect  to  their  scope  and  object  they  may  stand  in  no  immediate  rela- 
tion to  each  other.  Such,  however,  as  we  have  already  observed,  is  the 
method  which  almost  all  other  poets  have  followed.  The  divine  genius 
of  Homer  alone  appears  rising  superior  to  all,  in  that  he  does  not  attempt 
to  place  before  us  the  whole  Trojan  war  ;  for  that  subject,  although  pre- 
senting (historically)  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  would,  if  treated 
in  its  integrity,  either  have  formed  an  overgrown  and  unwieldly  action, 
or,  if  restricted  and  condensed  in  the  execution,  would  have  been  over- 
charged with  matter.  He  prefers,  therefore,  selecting  one  part  and 
diversifying  it  with  numerous  episodes.  Other  poets,  indeed,  also  treat 
of  one  person,  one  time,  and  one  action,  but  comprising  many  parts ;  as, 
for  example,  the  authors  of  the  Cyprid  and  Little  Iliad.  Hence  the 
materials  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  supply  subject  each  for  but  one, 
or  perhaps  two  tragedies.  From  the  Cyprid,  on  the  other  hand,  may 
be  derived  many;  from  the  Little  Iliad  about  eight  or  more;  the 
Competition  for  the  Anns,  the  PhiKoc-te'tes,  Ne'op-tol'e-mus,  Eu- 
ryp'y-lus,  U-lys'ses  Mendicant,  La-cae'na,  lUii-persis,  Apoplus,  Si'non, 
Tro'a-des. 

Once  more : 

A  subject  is  one,  not,  as  some  suppose,  from  its  merely  relating  to  the 
affairs  of  one  person,  for  an  infinite  number  of  adventures,  offering  in 
themselves  no  unity,  might  befall  a  single  hero ;  and  in  the  same  way, 
one  man  might  perform  many  exploits  not  capable  of  being  combined 
into  a  single  action.  Hence  all  those  poets  are  at  fault  who  have  com- 
posed Heracleids  and  Theseids,  or  other  similar  poems;  for  they  imagine 
that  because  Hercules  was  one,  their  subject  must  also  be  one.  But  Ho- 
mer, excellent  as  he  is  in  other  respects,  has  here  also  displayed  his  usual 
fine  tact,  whether  acquired  by  art  or  bestowed  by  nature.  For  in  com- 
posing an  Odyssey  he  has  not  introduced  all  the  eventful  transactions  of 
his  hero's  life  .  .  .  but  those  alone  which  have  ranged  themselves  around 
that  one  action  which  we  now  call  the  Odyssey,  and  so  also  in  regard 
to  the  Iliad. 
6* 


130  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

With  some  innocent  felicitation  of  ourselves  and  of  our 
readers  that  we  have  thus,  in  omitting,  not  wholly  omitted, 
the  great  name  of  Aristotle  from  our  book,  we  take  up 
now  the  subject  proper  of  this  chapter,  Greek  tragedy,  as 
represented  in  ^schylus.  Greek  epic  poetry,  that  is.  Homer, 
has  already  been  treated,  in  a  previous  volume  of  this  series. 
There  remain  Greek  tragedy,  Greek  comedy,  Greek  lyric 
and  Greek  idyllic  poetry,  to  be  described  and  exemplified 
in  the  present  volume. 

The  first  thing  important  in  preparation  for  a  right  estimate 
of  Greek  tragedy,  is  to  disabuse  the  mind  of  a  certain  very 
natural  false  prepossession.  We  English-speakers,  we  stu- 
dents of  Shakespeare,  have,  of  course,  formed  our  ideas  of 
what  tragedy  is  from  the  examples  familiar  to  us  of  Shake- 
speare's art  in  this  line  of  literary  production.  Nothing  more 
instinctive  than  that  we  should  look  to  find  a  body  of  litera- 
ture in  Greek  that  has  the  same  name,  tragedy,  having  also 
the  same  character.  Nothing  more  instinctive,  and  nothing 
more  fallacious.  Greek  tragedy  and  English  tragedy  are 
two  very  distinct  affairs.  They  both  have  their  conventions, 
but  their  conventions  are  widely  different.  If  you  judge  the 
Greek  tragedy  by  the  standard  of  the  English,  you  will  think 
very  ill  of  the  Greek.  Conversely,  if  you  judge  the  English 
tragedy  by  the  standard  of  the  Greek,  you  will  think  very  ill 
of  the  English.  But  you  will,  in  either  case,  commit  a  crit- 
ical blunder  and  think  very  wrongly. 

Regard  Greek  tragedy  as  an  attempt  to  represent  real  life 
on  the  stage,  and  you  will  be  right  in  pronouncing  Greek 
tragedy  very  rude  literary  art,  art  entirely  unworthy  of  the 
praise  it  has  received.  But  Greek  tragedy  was  no  such  at- 
tempt. Its  material  was  not  reality,  and  its  aim  was  not  to  pro- 
duce a  life-like  representation.  We  may  state  the  difference 
between  ancient  tragedy  and  modern  in  a  single  antithetical 
sentence  :  Modern  tragedy  presents  real  life  idealized ;  an- 
cient tragedy  presented  an  ideal  life  realized.     The  subjects 


^schylus.  131 


of  Greek  tragedy  were  myths  in  which  nobody  believed — that 
is,  in  which  nobody  believed  as  every  body  believes  in  the 
things  of  real  life.  The  staple  myths  of  Greek  tragedy 
concerned  heroes  that  were  demigods.  There  was  a  certain 
tacit,  quasi-religious — a  conventional — acceptance  of  these 
myths,  an  acceptance  of  them  sufficient  to  render  them  a 
suitable  basis  on  which  to  impress  whatever  lesson  of  wisdom 
the  tragic  poet  might  wish  to  teach. 

For  Greek  tragedy  was  a  great  institute  of  teaching.  The 
motive  to  teach  was  quite  in  the  ascendant  over  the  motive 
to  amuse.  Whereas  modern  dramatic  art  seeks  first  to  enter- 
tain, and  then,  if  at  all,  to  instruct  and  profit,  the  ancient 
tragedy  reversed  this  order  and  was  first  didactic,  and,  after 
that,  for  the  sake  of  didactics,  diverting.  Unless  you  under- 
stand this  about  Greek  tragedy,  you  will  be  staggered  in 
reading  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides.  You  will  won- 
der that  these  writers  could  ever  have  won  the  renown  they 
enjoy.  Remember,  then,  that  whereas  the  modern  tragedy 
aims  to  represent  life,  somewhat  ideally,  as  life  really  is,  and 
even  makes  its  boast  of  not  trying  to  enforce  any  moral,  of 
being  content  with  itself  as  art  without  seeking  to  make 
itself  aught  as  ethics,  of  leaving  the  whole  business  of  didac- 
tics to  the  sermon  and  the  essay — Greek  tragedy,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  it  for  its  chief  purpose  to  teach.  It  repre- 
sented action  only,  or  mainly,  for  the  sake  of  so  teaching 
the  more  impressively.  Milton,  in  the  Paradise  Regained, 
hits  the  truth  exactly  : 

Thence  what  the  lofty,  grave  tragedians  taught 
In  chorus  or  iambick,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 
Of  fate  and  chance  and  change  in  human  life. 
High  actions  and  high  passions  best  describing. 

It  is  worthy  of  being  noted,  by  the  way,  that  thus  the 
Greek  example  fails  the  modern  devotees  of  art  at  a  very 


132  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

important  point.  Those  who  maintain  the  doctrine  of  art 
for  art's  sake,  are  fond  of  drawing  precedent  from  ancient 
Greece.  Art,  they  are  in  the  habit  of  saying,  is  spoiled  when 
it  tries  to  preach.  Look  at  Greece.  How  Greece  delighted 
in  beauty !  Greece  was  wise  enough  to  let  beauty  have  its 
place,  and  stand  alone  sufficient  to  itself.  Do  not  blame,  so 
say  these  critics,  do  not  blame  Shakespeare  for  being  simply 
an  artist.  Suffer  him  to  represent  life,  and  do  not  insist  on 
his  pointing  amoral.  But  the  Greek  tragedians  did  just  this 
forbidden  thing.  And  who  can  be  supposed  to  understand, 
better  than  did  the  ancient  Greeks,  the  full  rights  of  art  as 
against  the  claims  of  ethics  'i 

The  Greek  tragedies  were  represented  by  daylight  in  the 
open  air,  before  assemblages  that  numbered  their  tens  of 
thousands  of  spectators.  The  blue  sky  was  roof  to  the  im- 
mense amphitheatre,  rocks,  woods,  and  mountains,  and  tem- 
ples of  the  gods,  were  the  inclosing  walls.  The  glorious  sun 
was  the  common  light  of  all  their  seeing.  These  circum- 
stances made  such  illusion  as  is  sought  in  the  modern  spec- 
tacle a  thing  quite  out  of  the  question  for  the  antique  stage. 
There  was,  indeed,  anciently  no  attempt  to  produce  the 
effect  of  such  illusion.  The  actors  wore  masks  on  their 
faces,  and  buskins  on  their  feet.  Besides  this,  they  wore 
a  kind  of  wig  designed  to  make  them  look  taller,  and 
dressed  with  padding  designed  to  make  them  look  larger. 
Such  an  accoutrement  forbade  any  true  acting.  There 
was  no  play  of  feature  visible  to  spectators,  and  there  could 
be  no  free  movement  and  gesture  of  the  body.  The  whole 
spectacle  partook  of  the  character  of  something  statuesque, 
something  half  superhuman.  It  was  a  series  as  if  of  tab- 
leaux— the  figures  fixed,  immobile,  marmoreal.  The  design 
was,  indeed,  to  impose  a  kind  of  awe  on  the  imagination,  to 
subdue,  to  render  docile — this,  rather  than  to  present  a  life- 
like scene. 

-^schylus,  born  525  B.  C.,  was  the  true  originator  of  Greek 


JEschylus.  133 


tragedy.  He  found  the  stage  occupied  by  a  chorus  of 
singers,  whose  lyric  chant  was  the  chief  feature  of  the  dra- 
matic occasion.  Apart  from  the  chorus  there  was  but  one 
actor.  This  one  actor  diversified  the  monotony  of  the  per- 
formance with  a  narrative  monologue;  or  perhaps  there  was 
a  dialogue  carried  on  between  him  and  the  leader  of  the 
chorus,  ^schylus  introduced  a  second  actor,  and  thereby 
transformed  what  was  essentially  lyric  into  dramatic — for 
now  the  choral  part  became  secondary  from  having  pre- 
viously been  principal — created  in  fact  the  tragedy.  Changes 
were  afterward  incorporated,  but  tragedy  remained  for  the 
Greeks  substantially  what  ^schylus  made  it.  The  number 
of  actors  apart  from  the  chorus  was  always  very  small.  The 
history  of  classic  Greek  tragedy  covered  an  exceedingly 
short  space  of  time.  The  three  masters,  ^schylus,  Sophocles, 
and  Euripides,  were  in  part  mutual  contemporaries.  And 
these  three  are  all  the  Greek  tragedians  that  survive  to  us 
in  their  works. 

Each  one  of  the  three  was  a  fecund  genius,  ^schylus 
produced,  it  is  said,  no  less  than  seventy  tragedies.  But 
Sophocles  lived  a  long  life  productive  to  a  late  moment,  and 
one  hundred  and  thirteen  tragedies  are  credited  to  him. 
Euripides  was,  in  fruitfulness,  exactly  a  mean  between  the 
two ;  he  wrote  ninety-two  tragedies.  But  let  not  our  read- 
ers be  over  hasty  in  counting  themselves  rich.  Only  seven 
tragedies  of  ^schylus,  and  only  seven  of  Sophocles,  are  now 
extant.     From  Euripides  we  have  seventeen. 

^schylus  was  born  in  an  Attic  village  near  Athens.  He 
was  of  a  noble  family,  and  his  character  corresponded;  for 
he  was  in  spirit,  high,  haughty,  and  conservative.  He  fought 
at  Marathon,  and,  with  a  brother  of  his,  bore  ofif  a  prize 
adjudged  by  his  countrymen  for  valor.  At  Salamis,  too, 
ten  years  later,  he  took  part  against  the  Persians.  One  of 
his  tragedies.  The  Persians,  treats  the  downfall  of  Xerxes. 
This -piece,  by  the  way,  is  unique  in  Greek  tragedy  for  find- 


134  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

ing  the  personages  of  its  plot,  not  in  myth,  but  in  history. 
In  compensation,  there  is  an  element  of  ghostly  supernatural 
introduced — the  spirit  of  Darius  rising  from  the  dead  to 
teach  the  Persian  grandees  that  so  the  gods  chastise  the 
insolence  of  Xerxes.  In  the  interval  between  Marathon  and 
Salamis,  ^schylus  wrote  tragedies,  and  several  times  was 
crowned  victor  in  the  competitions  arranged  by  the  Atheni- 
ans to  take  place  among  their  rival  tragic  poets.  But  falling 
toward  the  last  into  disfavor  with  his  fellow-citizens — as  they 
in  turn  fell  into  disfavor  with  him — he  retired  to  Syracuse, 
where,  at  the  magnificent  and  munificent  court  of  Hiero,  he 
was  content  to  pass  the  closing  years  of  his  life. 

^schylus  was  a  kind  of  Michael  Angelo  in  the  largeness, 
in  the  ruggedness,  and  in  the  audacity  of  his  genius — in  the 
loftiness  and  pride  of  his  character  as  well.  Colossal,  Titan- 
ic— are  such  adjectives  as  one  wishes  to  use  in  describing 
^schylus.  He  was  the  most  aspiringly  sublime  of  all  the 
ancient  poets.  And  yet  he  said  of  himself,  in  a  self-disdain- 
ing way,  which  had,  perhaps,  more  of  pride  than  of  meekness 
in  it,  that  he  had  given  in  his  tragedies  only  "  fragments 
picked  up  from  the  mighty  feasts  of  Homer."  And  true  it 
is,  that  all  Greek  tragedy,  including  the  part  in  it  of  ^schy- 
lus,  dealt  largely  with  the  cycle  of  myths  that  centre  about 
the  Homeric  tale  of  Troy. 

In  choosing  from  among  the  greatest  of  the  extant  works  of 
^schylus,  we  hesitate  in  almost  hopeless  balance  between 
the  Pro-me'theus  Bound  and  the  Agamemnon,  for  presenta- 
tion to  our  readers.  The  Prometheus  Bound  has  less  intrinsic 
interest.  It  is  besides,  though  in  form  a  complete  work,  in 
fact  a  mere  fragment,  for  it  is  one  of  three  plays,  belonging 
together  in  what  is  called  a  trilogy,  of  which  the  other  two 
are  lost.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Agamemnon  would 
keep  the  reader  revolving  within  much  the  same  round  of 
things  as  that  with  which  Homer  has  already  made  him 
perhaps  sufficiently  familiar.     This  tragedy  too  belongs  in  a 


^schylus.  135 


triology  consisting  of  the  Agamemnon,  which  treats  of  that 
chieftain's  return  from  Troy  to  be  murdered  by  his  wife  Clyt- 
em-nes'tra;  the  Cho-eph'o-ri,  (offerers  of  libations,)  which 
represents  Electra,  Agamemnon's  daughter,  with  her  maid- 
ens, visiting  her  father's  grave  with  votive  gifts  and  rewarded 
by  the  return  of  her  brother,  Orestes,  to  slay  the  murderous 
mother  and  her  paramour ;  and  last  the  Eu-men'i-des,  (Furies,) 
which  shows  Orestes  accused  by  these  beings,  defended  by 
Apollo,  and  absolved  by  A-the'ne.  There  are  peculiar  inter- 
ests of  English  literary  association  belonging  to  the  Prome- 
theus, and  these,  together  with  the  unique  and  lofty  charac- 
ter of  the  tragedy  itself,  determine  us,  upon  the  whole, 
to  make  that  our  choice  for  the  purpose  of  the  present 
volume. 

Prometheus  was  a  mythical  being  of  superhuman  rank, 
who  stole  fire  from  heaven  and  brought  it  to  men.  For  this 
offense  against  Zeus,  he  was  condemned  to  be  chained  alive 
to  a  rocky  cliff  in  the  Cau'ca-sus.  Prometheus  himself  is,  of 
course,  the  chief  personage  in  the  action.  The  drama  begins 
with  the  scene  of  the  chaining.  Conversation  first  takes 
place  between  He-phses'tus  (Vulcan)  and  two  allegoric 
characters.  Strength  and  Force,  while  these  three  rivet  the 
captive  divinity  to  the  rock.  This  accomplished,  Promethe- 
us is  visited  in  his  solitude  by  a  troop  of  nymphs,  with  whom 
he  holds  prolonged  discourse.  He  expresses  himself  with 
unconquerable  pride  against  Zeus,  claiming  to  possess  a 
secret  not  known  to  the  monarch  himself  of  Olympus,  on 
which  nevertheless  the  stability  of  that  monarch's  kingdom 
depends.  While  the  haughty  sufferer  is  in  the  height  of  his 
defiance  of  Zeus,  the  Thunderer  sends  a  tempest,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Prometheus  disappears  and  the  tragedy  ends. 
Such,  in  brief,  is  the  action  of  the  poem. 

The  Prometheus  Unbound  is  a  lost  work  of  ^schylus. 
Shelley  has  ventured  after  a  certain  sort  to  supply  its  place 
with  a  creation  of  his  own.     Of  this  modern  attempt  at  com- 


136  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

pleting  of  a  great  antique  torso,  we  may,  in  due  time,  say- 
something,  but  now  forthwith  to  presentation  of  the  torso 
itself. 

The  Prometheus  Bound  of  ^schylus  attracted  the  learn- 
ing and  the  genius  of  Mrs.  Browning  to  give  it  form  in 
English  verse.  We  shall  chiefly  use  Mrs.  Browning's  transla- 
tion here.  It  is  a  noble  piece  of  work,  admirable  for  schol- 
arship in  Greek,  and,  as  English  literature,  marred  only  by 
those  technical  faults  of  execution,  which  Mrs.  Browning, 
with  all  her  resplendent  gifts,  never,  except  in  her  rarest 
felicities  of  mood,  was  fortunate  enough  wholly  to  escape. 
The  original  poem,  like  all  the  Greek  tragedies,  was  written 
chiefly  in  iambics.  Iambic  blank  verse,  Mrs.  Browning's 
choice  for  her  task,  is  accordingly  a  fit  mould  of  English 
translation.  The  parts,  however,  of  the  chorus,  with  certain 
lyric  passages  besides,  are  given  by  ^schylus  (and  like  is  the 
usage  of  all  the  Greek  tragedians)  in  various  other  metres. 
Such  exceptional  portions  of  the  tragedy  Mrs.  Browning  ap- 
propriately renders  in  correspondingly  varied  English  style, 
with  added  garnish  of  rhyme.  The  entire  length  of  the 
tragedy  is  eleven  hundred  and  fourteen  Greek  lines.  Mrs. 
Browning's  version  makes  about  fourteen  hundred  lines  in 
English. 

The  first  scene  opens  with  Strength  speaking : 

Strength.  We  reach  the  utmost  limit  of  the  earth, 

The  Scythian  track,  the  desert  without  man, 
And  now,  Hephaestus,  thou  must  needs  fulfill 
The  mandate  of  our  Father,  and  with  links 
Indissoluble  of  adamantine  chains, 
Fasten  against  this  beetling  precipice 
This  guilty  god.     Because  he  filched  away 
Thine  own  bright  flower,  the  glory  of  plastic  fire. 
And  gifted  mortals  with  it — such  a  sin 
It  doth  behoove  he  expiate  to  the  gods, 
Learning  to  accept  the  empery  of  Zeus 
And  leave  off  his  old  trick  of  loving  man. 


^schylus.  137 


Strength  is  a  burly,  fierce  fellow.     But  Hephaestus  shows  \ 
some  feeling  : 

HephcBstus.  O  Strength  and  Force,  for  you,  our  Zeus's  will 
Presents  a  deed  for  doing,  no  more! — but  I, 

I  lack  your  daring,  up  this  stotm-rent  chasm  \ 
To  fix  with  violent  hands  a  kindred  god — 

Howbeit  necessity  compels  me  so  ; 

That  I  must  dare  it — and  our  Zeus  commands  \ 

With  a  most  inevitable  word.     [71?  Prometheus  /]  Ho,  thou  !  1 

High-thoughted  son  of  Themis  who  is  sage!  \ 

Thou  art  adjudged  to  guard  this  joyless  rock,  ij 

Erect,  unslumbering,  bending  not  the  knee,  \ 

And  many  a  cry  and  unavailing  moan  i 

To  utter  on  the  air.     For  Zeus  is  stern,  ; 

And  new-made  kings  are  cruel.  j 

Force  has  nothing  whatever  to  say.     But  Strength  and 
Hephsestus   keep  up   a   colloquy  while  the  work  goes   on. 

Hephaestus  sighs :  ; 

I  would  some  other  hand  *    . 

Were  here  to  work  it !  | 

Whereto, 

All  work  hath  its  pain  ' 
Except  to  rule  the  gods, 

replies  Strength,  generalizing  philosophically.     He  adds: 

There  is  none  free  ; 

Except  King  Zeus.  ■ 

A  few  more  similar  exchanges  of  remark  occur  between  j 
the  two.  Strength  meanwhile  keeping  a  strict  eye  to  the  bus- 
iness in  hand.     Hephaestus  is  disposed  to  regard  the  task  as  ^ 
now  done,  when  Strength  exclaims  :  ; 

Still  faster  grapple  him —  ! 

Wedge  him  in  deeper— leave  no  inch  to  stir  !  j 

He's  terrible  for  finding  a  way  out  ] 

From  the  irremediable.  \ 


138  College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

•i 

Hephaestus  apparently  tries  to  relieve  the  tension  by  put-  i 

ting  on  an  indifferent  air  of  compliance ;  but  Strength  is  not  \ 

to  be  cajoled :  ] 

Strength.  Now,  straight  through  the  chest,  ^ 

Take  him  and  bite  him  with  the  clenching  tooth 
Of  the  adamantine  wedge,  and  rivet  him. 

This  is  too  much  for   Hephaestus,  who  bursts  out — this  \ 

time  to  Prometheus  :  ^ 

Alas,  Prometheus,  what  thou  suflferest  here 

I  sorrow  over.  ". 

Strength  is  not  yet  done  with  his  relentless  hounding  on  ^ 

of  Hephaestus  to  his  task.     But  at  length  even  Strength  is  \ 

satisfied.  Prometheus  is  left  to  his  solitude  and  chains  and 
pains,  with  a  fierce  farewell  speech  from  Strength,  conceived 
as  follows : 

Methinks  the  Daemons  gave  thee  a  wrong  name, 
Prometheus,  which  means  Providence — ^because  ■ 

Thou  dost  thyself  need  providence  to  see  1 

Thy  roll  and  ruin  from  the  top  of  doom.  j 

Prometheus,  forsaken,  soliloquizes  :  \ 

O  holy  ^ther,  and  swift  winged  Winds, 

And  river- wells,  and  laughter  innumerous  ' 

Of  yon  sea-waves  !     Earth,  mother  of  us  all, 

And  all-viewing  cyclic  Sun,  I  cry  on  you — 

Behold  me  a  god,  what  I  endure  from  gods  !  ,i 

Behold,  with  throe  on  throe,  1 

How,  wasted  by  this  woe,  \ 

I  wrestle  down  the  myriad  years  of  time  !  ! 

Behold,  how  fast  around  me. 

The  new  King  of  the  happy  ones  sublime 

Has  flung  the  chain  he  foiled,  has  shamed  and  bound  me  ! 

Alas  me  !  what  a  murmur  and  motion  I  hear  r 

As  of  birds  flying  near  I  \ 

And  the  air  undersings  ij 

The  light  stroke  of  their  wings —  \ 

And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for  in  fear.  ' 


yEschylus.  139 


"  Laughter  innumerous  "  is  a  literal  rendering,  not  strik- 
ingly happy,  of  a  famous  expression  in  the  original.  The 
expression  is  itself  a  kind  of  dimple  on  the  sea  of  the 
^schylian  verse,  like  a  part  of  that  very  many-twinkling 
ripple  of  wave  which  it  describes.  The  "all-beholding  sun  " 
of  Bryant's  Thanatopsis,  our  readers  will  observe,  was  in 
the  Prometheus  Bound  of  ^schylus  before.  In  Shelley's 
Prometheus  Unbound  occurs  the  self-same  phrase  of  Bry- 
ant.    But  Bryant  was  earlier  by  a  year  or  two  than  Shelley. 

What  Prometheus  heard  was  the  approach  of  the  winged 
sea-nymphs.  These  constitute  a  chorus.  They  chant  in  a 
lyrical  strain : 

Fear  nothing '  our  troop 

Floats  lovingly  up 

With  a  quick-oaring  stroke 

Of  wings  steered  to  the  rock, 
Having  softened  the  soul  of  our  father  below ! 
For  the  gales  of  swift-bearing  have  sent  me  a  sound| 
And  the  clank  of  the  iron,  the  malleted  blow, 

Smote  down  the  profound 

Of  my  caverns  of  old, 
And  struck  the  red  light  in  a  blush  from  my  brow — 
Till  I  sprang  up  unsandaled,  in  haste  to  behold. 
And  rushed  forth  on  my  chariot  of  wings  manifold. 

The  sea-nymphs  and  Prometheus  chant  responsively  to 
each  other  through  several  pages  of  lofty  lyrical  dialogue. 
The  sea-nymphs  sympathize  with  the  suffering  god,  and  say 
hard  things  of  Zeus.  Prometheus  on  his  part  lets  out  dark 
hints  of  something  that  he  knows,  deeply  concerning  the 
interests  of  his  conqueror  and  torturer.  The  sea-nymphs 
are  tantalized.  They  beg  Prometheus  to  tell  them  all  about 
the  matter.  Prometheus  seems  to  yield,  and,  beginning  with 
retrospect,  proceeds,  interrupted  from  time  to  time  by  the 
nymphs,  to  the  following  purpose  : 

When  gods  began  with  wrath, 
And  war  rose  up  between  their  starry  brows, 


140  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Some  choosing  to  cast  Chronos  from  his  throne 
That  Zeus  might  king  it  there,  and  some  in  haste 
With  opposite  oaths  that  they  would  have  no  Zeus 
To  rule  the  gods  forever — I,  who  brought 
The  counsel  I  thought  meetest,  could  not  move 
The  Titans,  children  of  the  Heaven  and  Earth, 
What  time,  disdaining  in  their  rugged  souls 
My  subtle  machinations,  they  assumed 
It  was  an  easy  thing  for  force  to  take 
The  mastery  of  fate. 

Tartarus, 
With  its  abysmal  cloister  of  the  Dark, 
Because  I  gave  that  counsel,  covers  up 
The  antique  Chronos  and  his  siding  hosts. 
And,  by  that  counsel  helped,  the  king  of  gods 
Hath  recompensed  me  with  these  bitter  pangs  ! 
For  kingship  wears  a  cancer  at  the  heart — 
Distrust  in  friendship.     Do  ye  also  ask, 
What  crime  it  is  for  which  he  tortures  me — 
That  shall  be  clear  before  you.     When  at  first 
He  filled  his  father's  throne,  he  instantly 
Made  various  gifts  of  glory  to  the  gods. 
And  dealt  the  empire  out.     Alone  of  men. 
Of  miserable  men,  he  took  no  count, 
But  yearned  to  sweep  their  track  off  from  the  world. 
And  plant  a  newer  race  there.     Not  a  god 
Resisted  such  desire  except  myself! 
I  dared  it  !     I  drew  mortals  back  to  light, 
From  meditated  ruin  deep  as  hell! 
For  which  wrong,  I  am  bent  down  in  these  pangs 
Dreadful  to  suffer,  mournful  to  behold — 
And  I,  who  pitied  man,  am  thought  myself 
Unworthy  of  pity — while  I  render  out 
Deep  rhythms  of  anguish  'neath  the  harping  hand 
That  strikes  me  thus ! — a  sight  to  shame  your  ZeusJ 

Chorus,  And  didst  thou  sin 

No  more  than  so  ? 
Prometheus.  I  did  restrain  besides 

My  mortals  from  premeditating  death.— 


yEschylus.  141 


Cho.  How  didst  thou  medicine  the  plague-fear  of  death  ?  \ 

Pro.  I  set  blind  hopes  to  inhabit  in  their  house.  i 

Cho.  By  that  gift,  thou  didst  help  thy  mortals  well.  ; 

P>o,  I  gave  them  also, — fire.  \ 

Cho.                                                    And  have  they  now,  1 

Those  creatures  of  a  day,  the  red-eyed  fire  ?  \ 
Pro.  They  have  !  and  shall  learn  by  it  many  arts. 

Cho.  And,  truly,  for  such  sins  Zeus  tortures  thee,  j 

And  will  remit  no  anguish  ?     Is  there  set  i 

No  limit  before  thee  to  thine  agony  ?  i 

Pro.  No  other  !  only  what  seems  good  to  Him.  \ 

But  mourn  not  ye  for  griefo 

I  bear  to-day  ! — ^hear  rather,  dropping  down  1 

To  the  plain,  how  other  woes  creep  on  to  me,  * 

And  learn  the  consummation  of  my  doom.  i 

Beseech  you,  nymphs,  beseech  you,  grieve  for  me  " 
Who  now  am  grieving! — for  Grief  walks  the  earth, 

And  sits  down  at  the  foot  of  each  by  turns, 

I 

The  sentiment  with  which  the  foregoing  extract  closes  is  \ 

highly  characteristic  of  the  grave  and  solemn  genius  of  ^s-  \ 
chylus.     O-ce'an-us  (Ocean-god)  now  arrives,  and  joins  the 
company  of  sympathizers  with   Prometheus.      Prometheus, 

greeting  him,  flings  out  high  words  against  Zeus.     Oceanus  < 
is  worldly-wise,  and  he  counsels  the  captive  thriftily.     He 

proposes  a  plan  of  intervention  with  Zeus  on  behalf  of  the  • 

sufferer:  \ 

Prometheus,  I  behold — and  I  would  fain 

Exhort  thee,  though  already  subtle  enough,  . 

To  a  better  wisdom.     Titan,  know  thyself,  ' 

And  take  new  softness  to  thy  manners  since  \ 

A  new  king  rules  the  gods.  , 

Beseech  thee,  use  me  then  ! 

For  counsel !  do  not  spurn  against  the  pricks —  \ 

Seeing  that  who  reigns,  reigns  by  cruelty  i 

Instead  of  right.     And  now,  I  go  from  hence,  | 

And  will  endeavor  if  a  power  of  mine  i 

Can  break  thy  fetters  through.     For  thee — ^be  calm,  \ 


142  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


And  smooth  thy  words  from  passion.     Knowest  thou  not 
Of  perfect  knowledge,  thou  who  knowest  too  much, 
That  where  the  tongue  wags,  ruin  never  lags  ? 

But  Prometheus  says  :  *  No,  there  is  no  hope.  Zeus  is 
not  to  be  entreated.  You  will  only  bring  trouble  on  yourself/ 
The  speech  of  Prometheus  is,  however,  too  magnificent  not 
to  be  spread  out  somewhat  at  large.  In  it  he  gives  glimpses, 
in  powerful  description,  of  that  ancient  war  of  the  Giants 
against  Zeus,  which  resulted  in  overthrow  and  punishment 
to  the  rebel  Titans.  Of  these.  Atlas  was  one — "my  brother 
Atlas,"  Prometheus  calls  him.  Atlas  was  condemned  to  bear 
up  the  heaven  and  the  earth  upon  his  shoulders.  Hundred- 
headed  Typhon  the  fell  was  another  rebel  overthrown.  He 
was  sentenced  to  heave  and  toss  uneasily  under  ^tna.  But 
here  is  Titan  ^schylus  himself  upon  the  Titans,  fitly  pre- 
sented in  the  truly  Titanic  translation  of  Mrs.  Browning. 
Prometheus  says  to  Oceanus: 

Take  rest, 
And  keep  thyself  from  evil.     If  I  grieve, 
I  do  not  therefore  wish  to  multiply 
The  griefs  of  others.     Verily,  not  so  ! 
For  still  my  brother's  doom  doth  vex  my  soul — 
My  brother  Atlas,  standing  in  the  west, 
Shouldering  the  column  of  the  heaven  and  earth, 
A  difficult  burden  !     I  have  also  seen, 
And  pitied  as  I  saw,  the  earth-born  one. 
The  inhabitant  of  old  Cilician  caves. 
The  great  war-monster  of  the  hundred  heads, 
(All  taken  and  bowed  beneath  the  violent  Hand,) 
Typhon  the  fierce,  who  did  resist  the  gods, 
And,  hissing  slaughter  from  his  dreadful  jaws. 
Flash  out  ferocious  glory  from  his  eyes, 
As  if  to  storm  the  throne  of  Zeus  !     Whereat, 
The  sleepless  arrow  of  Zeus  flew  straight  at  him — 
The  headlong  bolt  of  thunder  breathing  flame, 
And  struck  him  downward  from  his  eminence 
Of  exultation  !     Through  the  very  soul 
It  struck  him,  and  his  strength  was  withered  up 


yEschylus.  1 43 


To  ashes,  thunder-blasted.     Now,  he  lies  j 

A  helpless  trunk  supinely,  at  full  length  ^ 

Beside  the  strait  of  ocean,  spurred  into  -  '. 

By  roots  of  -^tna — high  upon  whose  tops 
Hephaestus  sits  and  strikes  the  flashing  ore. 
From  thence  the  rivers  of  fire  shall  burst  away 
Hereafter,  and  devour  with  savage  jaws 
The  equal  plains  of  fruitful  Sicily, 
Such  passion  he  shall  boil  back  in  hot  darts 

Of  an  insatiate  fury  and  sough  of  flame,  \ 

Fallen  Typhon — howsoever  struck  and  charred  i 

By  Zeus's  bolted  thunder  !     But  for  thee,  ] 

Thou  art  not  so  unlearned  as  to  need  1 

My  teaching — let  thy  knowledge  save  thyself. 
I  quaff"  the  full  cup  of  a  present  doom, 

And  wait  till  Zeus  hath  quenched  his  will  in  wrath.  1 

Oceanus.  Prometheus,  art  thou  ignorant  of  this,  \ 

That  words  do  medicine  anger  ?  ^ 

Prometheus.  If  the  word 

With  seasonable  softness  touch  the  soul, 
And,  where  the  parts  are  ulcerous,  sear  them  not 
By  any  rudeness. 

The  "  words  do  medicine  anger,"  of  ^schylus,  recalls  that 

of  Milton : 

Apt  words  have  power  to  suage 
The  tumors  of  a  troubled  mind. 

Oceanus,  undissuaded  by  Prometheus,  speeds  him  off  to  see 
what  he  may  be  able  to  effect  for  the  captive.  The  nymphs 
intervene  with  strophe  and  antistrophe  of  soothing  sympathy, 
one  group  of  the  chorus  answering  another,  and  then  Prome- 
theus resumes  his  part : 

Beseech  you,  think  not  T  am  silent  thus 
Through  pride  or  scoi-n  !     I  only  gnaw  my  heart 
With  meditation,  seeing  myself  so  wronged. 
For  so — their  honors  to  these  new-made  gods. 
What  other  gave  but  I,  and  dealt  them  out 
With  distribution  ?     Ay — but  here  I  am  dumb  ! 
For  here,  I  should  repeat  your  knowledge  to  you, 


144  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

If  I  spake  aught.     List  rather  to  the  deeds 

I  did  for  mortals  !— how,  being  fools  before, 

I  made  them  wise  and  true  in  aim  of  soul. 

And  let  me  tell  you — not  as  taunting  men. 

But  teaching  you  the  intention  of  my  gifts, 

How,  first  beholding,  they  beheld  in  vain, 

And  hearing,  heard  not,  but,  like  shapes  in  dreams, 

Mixed  all  things  wildly  down  the  tedious  time, 

Nor  knew  to  build  a  house  against  the  sun 

With  wicketed  sides,  nor  any  woodcraft  knew. 

But  lived,  like  silly  ants,  beneath  the  ground 

In  hollow  caves  unsunned.     There,  came  to  them 

No  steadfast  sign  of  winter,  nor  of  spring 

Flower-perfumed,  nor  of  summer  full  of  fruit, 

But  blindly  and  lawlessly  they  did  all  things, 

Until  I  taught  them  how  the  stars  do  rise 

And  set  in  mystery,  and  devised  for  them 

Number,  the  inducer  of  philosophies, 

The  synthesis  of  Letters,  and  besides, 

The  artificer  of  all  things.  Memory, 

That  sweet  Muse-mother.     I  was  first  to  yoke 

The  servile  beasts  in  couples,  carrying 

An  heirdom  of  man's  burdens  on  their  backs. 

I  joined  to  chariots,  steeds,  that  love  the  bit 

They  champ  at — the  chief  pomp  of  golden  ease ! 

And  none  but  I  originated  ships. 

The  seaman's  chariots,  wandering  on  the  brine 

"With  linen  wings.     And  I — O,  miserable  ! — 

Who  did  devise  for  mortals  all  these  arts, 

Have  no  device  left  now  to  save  myself 

From  the  woe  I  suffer. 

The  chorus  are  wise  sympathizers.  They  let  grief  have 
its  way.  By  the  simple  echoing  back,  in  chime  with  him, 
of  what  Prometheus  says,  they  console  him  better  than  by 
any  intrusion  of  advice  they  could :  j 

Most  unseemly  woe  j 

Thou  sufferest,  and  dost  stagger  from  the  sense,  i 
Bewildered  !    Like  a  bad  leech  falling  sick 

Thou  art  faint  of  soul,  and  canst  not  find  the  drugs  , 

Required  to  save  thyself.  1 


^schylus.  145 


This  unlocks  Prometheus's  heart  still  wider,  and  disbur- 
dens him  of  more : 

Hearken  the  rest, 
And  marvel  further — what  more  arts  and  means 
I  did  invent — this  greatest ! — if  a  man 
Fell  sick,  there  was  no  cure,  nor  esculent. 
Nor  chrism,  nor  liquid,  but  for  lack  of  drugs 
Men  pined  and  wasted,  till  I  showed  them  all 
Those  mixtures  of  emollient  remedies 
"Whereby  they  might  be  rescued  from  disease. 
I  fixed  the  various  rules  of  mantic  art. 
Discerned  the  vision  from  the  common  dream, 
Instructed  them  in  vocal  auguries 
Hard  to  interpret,  and  defined  as  plain 
The  way-side  omens — flights  of  crook-clawed  birds- 
Showed  which  are,  by  their  nature,  fortunate, 
And  which  not  so,  and  what  the  food  of  each. 
And  what  the  hates,  affections,  social  needs, 
Of  all  to  one  another — taught  what  sign 
Of  visceral  lightness,  colored  to  a  shade, 
May  charm  the  genial  gods,  and  what  fair  spots 
Commend  the  lung  and  liver.     Burning  so 
The  limbs  encased  in  fat,  and  the  long  chine, 
I  led  my  mortals  on  to  an  art  abstruse. 
And  cleared  their  eyes  to  the  image  in  the  fire. 
Erst  filmed  in  dark.     Enough  said  now  of  this. 
For  the  other  helps  of  man  hid  underground, 
The  iron  and  the  brass,  silver  and  gold, 
Can  any  dare  affirm  he  found  them  out 
Before  me  ?  none,  I  know  !  unless  he  choose 
To  lie  in  his  vaunt.     In  one  word  learn  the  whole— 
That  all  arts  came  to  mortals  from  Prometheus. 

Prometheus,  our  readers  will  note,  broaches  that  view  of 
human  history  which  makes  man  to  have  begun  in  savagery 
and  to  have  worked  his  way  gradually  up  to  civilization. 
The  evolutionists  may  elect  Prometheus  to  posthumous 
honorary  membership  in  their  guild.  From  interchange  fol- 
lowing between  Prometheus  and  the  chorus,  it  appears  that 
Zeus  himself  is  bound  by  necessity.  The  nymphs  in  chorus 
7 


146  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

wish  themselves  security  against  the  dreadful  wrath  of  Zeus, 
and  mourn  the  contrast  between  Prometheus's  present  lot 
and  the  auspices  that  smiled  about  his  bridal  bed,  they  sing- 
ing then  and  there  a  hymeneal  chant. 

But  here  enters  a  strange  new  personage  into  the  action. 
It  is  no  other  than  hapless  To,  a  mortal  maiden  loved  by 
Zeus  and  for  that  reason  tormented  of  Here,  Zeus's  wife. 
Here  has  revengefully  changed  lo  into  a  heifer,  and  she  now 
drives  her  victim  ever  from  land  to  land  helpless  and  mad 
under  the  sting  of  a  gadfly.  lo,  suifering  and  forlorn  under 
her  own  shameful  transformation,  is  arrested  by  the  encoun- 
ter of  grief  in  Prometheus  greater  than  her  own.  She  begs 
to  know  from  him  why  he  is  in  that  hard  case,  and,  having 
been  told  briefly,  asks  further  what  still  awaits  herself.  Pro- 
metheus, replying,  foretells  in  part  the  wanderings  she  must 
still  accomplish — this  at  great  length,  and  with  many  proper 
names  recounted  which  give  here  a  Miltonic  look  to  Mrs. 
Browning's  page.  It  is  all  very  fine,  but  the  interest  of  it 
is  for  us  moderns  remote  and  cold.  We  pass  it,  noting  only 
a  curious  etymology  that  ^schylus  quite  unexpectedly 
pauses  on  his  way  to  give.  Poor  lo,  heifer-maid,  must 
swim  "the  strait  Maeotis."  This  crossing  of  that  water 
shall  give  the  strait  a  name  forever,  "  Bosphorus,"  or  "  Bos- 
poros" — literally,  as  Mrs.  Browning  translates,  "  the  horned 
one's  road."     (Let  the  reader  compare  English  Ox-ford.) 

Prometheus  not  having  yet  told  her  all  that  lay  before  her, 
lo  was  immeasurably  distressed  to  hear  even  such  part  of 
her  predestined  woes.  To  her,  asking  why  she  had  not 
better  at  once  dash  herself  down  the  rocks  and  make  an  end, 
Prometheus  says,  '  For  me  is  no  release  from  ills  in  death. 
I  must  suff'er  till  Zeus  cease  to  reign.'  'And  will  Zeus  ever 
cease  to  reign  }  '  eagerly  asks  lo  ;  '  How  ?  '  '  Through  one, 
at  a  remove  of  thirteen  generations,  born  of  you,'  replies 
Prometheus ;  and  this  is  the  connection  in  fate  between  the 
two   which   has  justified   the    introduction   of  lo   into   the 


^schylus.  147 


drama.  Only  tantalized  with  this  unsatisfying  glimpse  of  the 
future,  lo  begs  to  know  more.  Prometheus  offers  her  an 
option.  She  shall  either  hear  the  full  measure  of  her  own 
appointed  sorrows,  or  she  shall  hear  how  he  himself,  Prome- 
theus, is  at  length  to  be  released.  The  chorus  interposes 
with,  *  Tell  to  her  the  one  and  to  me  the  other.*  And  Pro- 
metheus complies.  He  is  highly  explicit  in  his  itinerary  of 
poor  lo's  future  wanderings;  but  when  he  comes  to  the 
matter  of  his  own  deliverance  he  is  oracularly  obscure.  His 
deliverer  will  be  a  personage  designated  only  by  a  pronoun 
— it  will  be  a  certain  He.  That  is  the  sense  of  the  passage, 
lo  hereupon  falls  into  a  fresh  paroxysm  of  her  anguish, 
and  with  a  frenzied  outcry  in  lyrical  numbers  dashes  out  of 
the  scene.  The  chorus,  in  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode, 
chant  their  sentiments  in  view  of  what  they  have  seen  and 
heard.  These  lyrical  strains  we  transfer  to  our  pages.  They 
well  exemplify,  first,  the  dithyrambic  fury  of  ^schylus  in 
his  lyrical  strains,  and,  secondly,  the  style  of  didactic  reflec- 
tion through  which  the  chorus  in  Greek  tragedy  communi- 
cated its  lessons  of  practical  wisdom  : 

lo,  Eleleu,  eleleu  ! 

How  the  spasm  and  the  pain 
And  the  fire  on  the  brain 

Strike,  burning  me  through  ! 
How  the  sting  of  the  curse,  all  aflame  as  it  flew. 

Pricks  me  onward  again  ! 
How  my  heart,  in  its  terror,  is  spuming  my  breast. 
And  my  eyes,  like  the  wheels  of  a  chariot,  roll  round  ! 
I  am  whirled  from  my  course,  to  the  east,  to  the  west. 
In  the  whirlwind  of  phrensy  all  madly  inwound — 
And  my  mouth  is  unbridled  for  anguish  and  hate, 
And  my  words  beat  in  vain,  in  wild  storms  of  unrest. 
On  the  sea  of  my  desolate  fate. 


Chorus — strophe. 
O,  wise  was  he,  O,  wise  was  he, 
Who  first  within  his  spirit  knew, 


148  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

And  with  his  tongue  declared  it  true, 
That  love  comes  best  that  comes  unto 

The  equal  of  degree  ! 
And  that  the  poor  and  that  the  low 
Should  seek  no  love  from  those  above 
Whose  souls  are  fluttered  with  the  flow 
Of  airs  about  their  golden  height, 
Or  proud  because  they  see  arow 
Ancestral  crowns  of  light. 

Antistrophe. 
O,  never,  never,  may  ye,  Fates, 

Behold  me  with  your  awful  eyes 

Lift  mine  too  fondly  up  the  skies 
Where  Zeus  upon  the  purple  waits  ! 

Nor  let  me  step  too  near — too  near — 
To  any  suitor  bright  from  heaven  ! 

Because  I  see — because  I  fear 
This  loveless  maiden  vexed  and  laden 
By  this  fell  curse  of  Here,  driven 

On  wanderings  dread  and  drear. 

Epode. 
Nay,  grant  an  equal  troth  instead 

Of  nuptial  love,  to  bind  me  by  ! 
It  will  not  hurt — I  shall  not  dread 

To  meet  it  in  reply. 
But  let  not  love  from  those  above 
Revert  and  fix  me,  as  I  said. 

With  that  inevitable  Eye  ! 
I  have  no  sword  to  fight  that  fight — 
I  have  no  strength  to  tread  that  path— 
I  know  not  if  my  nature  hath 
The  power  to  bear — I  cannot  see 

Whither,  from  Zeus's  infinite, 

I  have  the  power  to  flee. 

What  follows  is  a  fine  bit  of  audacity  from  Prometheus  in 
menacing  defiance  of  Zeus.  Mrs.  Browning  rises  equal  to 
the  sublimity  of  her  original — as  Prometheus  dares  and  flouts 
the  thunder  of  the  Thunderer  in  this  high  fashion  : 


^schyhts.  149 


Now,  therefore,  let  him  sit 
And  brave  the  imminent  doom,  and  fix  his  fate 
On  his  supernal  noises,  hurtling  on 
"With  restless  hand,  the  bolt  that  breathes  out  fi 
For  these  things  shall  not  help  him,  none  of  them, 
Nor  hinder  his  perdition  when  he  falls 
To  shame,  and  lower  than  patience.     Such  a  foe 
He  doth  himself  prepare  against  himself, 
A  wonder  of  unconquerable  Hate, 
An  organizer  of  sublimer  fii-e 
Than  glares  in  lightnings,  and  of  grander  sound 
Than  aught  the  thunder  rolls,  outthundering  it. 
With  power  to  shatter  in  Poseidon's  fist 
The  trident-spear,  which,  while  it  plagues  the  sea, 
Doth  shake  the  shores  around  it.     Ay,  and  Zeus, 
Precipitated  thus,  shall  learn  at  length 
The  difference  betwixt  rule  and  servitude. 

The  chorus,  true  to  the  character  of  choruses — ever  wise, 
though  sometimes  commonplace  (but  is  not  real  wisdom 
generally  commonplace  }) — counsels  self-restraint  to  Prome- 
theus. Prometheus  is  only  goaded  to  fiercer  scorn  thereby. 
He  bursts  out  as  follows : 

Reverence  thou. 
Adore  thou,  flatter  thou,  whomever  reigns, 
Whenever  reigning  !  but  for  me,  your  Zeus 
Is  less  than  nothing.     Let  him  act  and  reign 
His  brief  hour  out  according  to  his  will — 
He  will  not,  therefore,  rule  the  gods  too  long. 
But,  lo  !     I  see  that  courier-god  of  Zeus, 
That  new-made  menial  of  the  new-crowned  king. 
He  doubtless  comes  to  announce  to  us  something  new. 

Hermes,  messenger  of  Zeus,  comes  requiring,  from  the 
king  of  gods  and  men,  that  Prometheus  speak  plainly  out 
his  boasted  secret.  Prometheus  answers  proudly,  and  con- 
cludes : 

Do  I  seem 
To  tremble  and  quail  before  your  modern  gods  ? 
Far  be  it  from  me  !     For  thyself,  depart, 


150  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Re-tread  thy  steps  in  haste.     To  all  thou  hast  asked, 
I  answer  nothing. 

Altercation  ensues  between  Hermes  and  Prometheus, 
Prometheus  speaking  with  a  rebellious  loftiness  and  pride 
worthy  of  Milton's  Satan.  Here,  indeed,  is  as  much  true 
parallel  for  the  first  books  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  as  any  thing 
in  literature  could  furnish.  We  add  a  further  specimen. 
Prometheus  says  to  Hermes : 

No  torture  from  his  hand 
Nor  any  machination  in  the  world 
Shall  force  mine  utterance,  ere  he  loose,  himself, 
These  cankerous  fetters  from  me  !     For  the  rest, 
Let  him  now  hurl  his  blanching  lightnings  down, 
And  with  his  white-winged  snows  and  mutterings  deep 
Of  subterranean  thunders,  mix  all  things. 
Confound  them  in  disorder.     None  of  this 
Shall  bend  my  sturdy  will,  and  make  me  speak 
The  name  of  his  dethroner  who  shall  come. 

Hermes    is    exasperatingly    calm   and    advisory.     But   he 

threatens  withal : 

Absolute  will  disjoined 
From  perfect  mind  is  worse  than  weak.     Behold, 
Unless  my  words  persuade  thee,  what  a  blast 
And  whirlwind  of  inevitable  woe 
Must  sweep  persuasion  through  thee.     For  at  first 
The  Father  will  split  up  this  jut  of  rock 
With  the  great  thunder  and  the  bolted  flame, 
And  hide  thy  body  where  a  hinge  of  stone 
Shall  catch  it  like  an  arm  ; — and  when  thou  hast 
A  long  black  time  within,  thou  shalt  come  out 
To  front  the  sun  while  Zeus's  winged  hound, 
The  strong  carnivorous  eagle,  shall  wheel  down 
To  meet  thee,  self-called  to  a  daily  feast, 
And  set  his  fierce  beak  in  thee,  and  tear  off 
The  long  rags  of  thy  flesh,  and  batten  deep 
Upon  thy  dusky  liver.     Do  not  look 
For  any  end  moreover  to  this  curse, 
Or  ere  some  god  appear,  to  accept  thy  pangs 
On  his  own  head  vicarious,  and  descend 


yEschylus.  151 


With  unreluctant  step  the  darks  of  hell 
And  gloomy  abysses  aiound  Tartarus. 

The  chorus  chimes  in  with  Hermes,  in  the  customary 
strain  of  choric  worldly- wisdom : 

Our  Hermes  suits  his  reasons  to  the  times  ; 
At  least  I  think  so — since  he  bids  thee  drop 
Self-will  for  prudent  counsel.     Yield  to  him  ! 
When  the  wise  err,  their  wisdom  makes  their  shame. 

Prometheus  abides  stout  and  defiant : 

Let  the  locks  of  the  lightning,  all  bristling  and  whitening. 

Flash,  coiling  me  round. 
While  the  aether  goes  surging  'neath  thunder  and  scourging 

Of  wild  winds  unbound  ! 
Let  the  blast  of  the  firmament  whirl  from  its  place 

The  earth  rooted  below. 
And  the  brine  of  the  ocean,  in  rapid  emotion. 

Be  it  driven  in  the  face 
Of  the  stars  up  in  heaven,  as  they  walk  to  and  fro ! 
Let  him  hurl  me  anon,  into  Tartarus — on — 

To  the  blackest  degree. 
With  Necessity's  vortices  strangling  me  down  ; 
But  he  cannot  join  death  to  a  fate  meant  for  me  ! 

Hermes  advises  the  sea-nymphs  to  withdraw  and  leave  the 
maniac  to  his  fate,  lest  they,  too,  be  involved  in  his  impend- 
ing ruin.  And  now  one  is  reminded  of  the  title  to  a  chapter 
in  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  :  "  Showing  that  Old  Acquaintances 
are  Capable  of  Surprising  Us."  For  the  chorus  most  unex- 
pectedly replies  with  spirit,  nay,  with  magnificent  heroism, 
to  the  counsel  of  Hermes.  The  sea-nymphs  decide  to  share, 
with  the  high-hearted  sufferer,  his  dark  and  dreadful  fate : 

Chorus.  Change  thy  speech  for  another,  thy  thought  for  a  new 
If  to  move  me  and  teach  me,  indeed  be  thy  caie  ! 

For  thy  words  swerve  so  far  from  the  loyal  and  true, 
That  the  thunder  of  Zeus  seems  more  easy  to  bear. 

How  !  couldst  teach  me  to  venture  such  vileness  ?  behold  ! 

I  choose,  with  this  victim,  this  anguish  foretold ! 


152  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

I  recoil  from  the  traitor  in  hate  and  disdain — 
And  I  know  that  the  curse  of  the  treason  is  worse 
Than  the  pang  of  the  chain. 

The  tragedy  ends  with  the  following  sublime  salutation 
and  welcome,  from  Prometheus,  of  his  doom : 

Ay  !  in  act,  now — in  word,  now,  no  more, 

Earth  is  rocking  in  space  ! 
And  the  thunders  crash  up  with  a  roar  upon  roar, 

And  the  eddying  lightnings  flash  fire  in  my  face, 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  whirling  the  dust  round  and  round, 

And  the  blasts  of  the  winds  universal  leap  free 
And  blow  each  upon  each  with  a  passion  of  sound, 

And  aether  goes  mingling  in  storm  with  the  sea  ! 
Such  a  curse  on  my  head,  in  a  manifest  dread, 

From  the  hand  of  your  Zeus  has  been  hurtled  along. 
O,  my  mother's  fair  glory  !     O,  ^Ether,  enringing, 
All  eyes  with  the  sweet  common  light  of  thy  bringing, 

Dost  see  how  I  suffer  this  wrong  ? 

Our  readers  must  feel  that  there  is  height  here  of  the 
intellectually  and  the  morally  sublime.  Certainly  nothing 
in  non-inspired  literature  is  worthier  than  the  Prometheus 
Bound  of  ^schylus  to  claim  kinship,  in  elevation,  in  maj- 
esty, in  power,  with  the  Paradise  Lost  of  Milton.  It  seems 
clear  that  Milton's  conception  of  Satan  owes  not  a  little  to 
inspiration  received  fiom  the  kindred  creation  of  Prome- 
theus, the  Titan  protagonist  in  this  great  tragedy  of  ^schylus. 

For  a  modernizing  allegorical  intepretation  of  the  Prome- 
theus Bound,  our  readers  will  study  with  pleasure  a  poem 
of  Mr.  Lowell's,  written  in  that  poet's  earlier,  simpler,  better, 
though,  it  must  be  confessed,  also  less  vigorous,  vein,  entitled 
"  Prometheus  " — a  poem  fine  enough  to  have  deserved  being 
made  many  times  finer  by  compression  to  a  quarter  of  its 
actual  length.  The  Promethean  prophecy  of  one  born  of 
woman  destined  to  overthrow  the  empire  of  Zeus,  is  capable 
of  a  striking  interpretation,  identifying  the  predicted  one 
with  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 


yEschylus,  153 


It  is  not  to  be  confidently  assumed  that  the  true  final 
teaching  of  ^schylus,  in  his  tragical  work,  was  hostile  to 
Zeus.  On  the  contrary,  the  complementary  parts  of  the  Pro- 
methean trilogy  are,  from  fragments  preserved  in  dispersion 
through  other  literature,  judged  to  have  represented  Prome- 
theus as,  in  the  event,  coming  to  terms  with  his  conqueror. 
Shelley  thought  this  a  feeble  and  disappointing  close  to  a 
commencement  so  magnificent  and  so  promising.  But  we 
had  better  not  so  decide  without  stronger  reason  than,  in 
the  absence  of  the  parts  missing,  we  can  possibly  possess. 
At  any  rate,  ^schylus  was  religious  rather  than  skeptical, 
and  he  meant  in  his  tragedies  to  help  piety  instead  of  help- 
ing irreverence.  Shelley  himself,  had  he  lived  to  be  an 
older,  might  have  come  to  be  also  a  more  believing,  man. 
His  "  Prometheus  Unbound  "  was  the  work  of  his  eager  and 
inexperienced  youth.  Professor  W.  S.  Tyler  has  a  volume, 
entitled  "  Theology  of  the  Greek  Poets,"  written  in  a  nobly 
Christian,  as  well  as  an  enlightened  scholar-like,  spirit,  that 
strikingly  illustrates  the  resemblance  and  the  contrast  exist- 
ing between  Revelation  and  the  hints  of  natural  or  tradi- 
tional religion  scattered  through  Greek  poetry.  His  remarks 
on  the  tragedians,  especially  -^schylus,  will  repay  careful 
attention. 

The  sentiment  naturally  inspired  in  the  sympathetic  breast 
by  the  spectacle  of  enduring  and  defying  Prometheus  is  very 
well  expressed  by  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  in  that  strange  com- 
pound of  the  noble  and  the  base,  the  Noctes  Ambrosianae 
of  Christopher  North.  The  quaint  Scottish  dialect  adds  a 
pleasant  piquancy  to  the  expression  :  "  Ane  amaist  fears  to 
pity  him,  lest  we  wrang  fortitude  sae  majestical." 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  said  generally  of  ^schylus,  that 
his  chief  fault  was,  as  the  French  would  express  it,  the  fault 
of  his  chief  virtue.  Grandeur,  sublimity,  was  the  great  char- 
acteristic of  his  genius.  But  he  was  sometimes  grandiose 
when  he  meant  to  be  grand,  sometimes  simply  swelling  when 


Y* 


154 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


he  meant  to  be  sublime.  Lucian  found  herein  his  oppor- 
tunity with  ^schylus.  In  his  Prometheus  (or  Caucasus)  he 
travesties  the  great  master,  in  his  characteristic  irreverent, 
but  irresistibly  amusing  style.  That  Lucian  could  not  make 
^schylus  wholly  ridiculous,  is  proof  enough  that  -^schylus 
had  an  indestructible  element  in  him  of  genuineness. 


VI. 

SOPHOCLES. 

The  proud  and  perhaps  scornful  spirit  of  ^schylus  had 
to  brook  the  mortification  of  being 
supplanted  in  fashion  and  favor  by 
a  younger  rival.  Sophocles  came 
up,  a  smiling  youth,  and,  with  what 
to  us  half  seems  an  easy  and  un- 
conscious grace,  took  off  for  him- 
self the  crown  of  supremacy  in 
tragic  verse  that  had  been  wont 
to  sit  on  the  brow  of  ^schylus. 
Sophocles  lived  long  to  enjoy  his 
triumphs,  frequently  but  not  quite 
uninterruptedly  repeated  through- 
out a  productive  career  almost  as 
remarkably  protracted  as  was  that 
of  the  painter  Titian — two  pictures 
SOPHOCLES.  by  whom  are  displayed  in  Venice 

side  by  side,  one  done  in  the  twentieth,  and  the  other  in  the 
ninetieth,  year  of  the  artist's  age.  Sophocles,  an  old  man, 
was  accused  of  doting,  by  litigants  who  through  this  charge 
would  invalidate  before  the  law  some  transaction  of  his  preju- 
dicial to  their  interest.  The  poet  triumphantly  confuted  his 
accusers  by  reciting  a  new  choric  ode  of  his  (presently  to  be 


Sophocles.  155 


shown  our  readers)  in  praise  of  the  beauties  of  Colonus. 
The  authenticated  incidents  of  his  life  are  not  many,  and  the 
few  are  not  important.  He  was  richly  and  variously  gifted — 
with  personal  charm,  with  happy  temperament,  with  popular 
favor,  with  good  fortune  of  almost  every  sort,  as,  beyond  all 
these  things,  with  an  exquisite  taste  and  a  beautiful  genius. 
*'  He  has  died  well,  having  suffered  no  evil,"  was  a  poet's 
sentence  on  Sophocles,  pronounced  not  long  after  his  de- 
cease. Aristophanes,  who  could  not  be  bitter  enough  toward 
Euripides,  represents  Sophocles  abiding  in  the  under  world, 
aloof  from  strife,  "  gentle  there,  even  as  he  was  gentle  here." 
It  would  seem,  however,  that  the  virtue  of  Sophocles  was  a 
Greek  virtue,  that  is — alas,  to  be  obliged  to  say  it ! — a  virtue 
not  intolerant  of  unchaste  life. 

Fortunately  for  the  fame  of  this  great  poet,  he  survives  in 
seven  of  his  masterpieces.  Among  these,  however — master- 
pieces all — it  is,  on  the  whole,  not  difficult  to  make  our  pres- 
ent choice.'  We  must  make  our  readers  acquainted  with  the 
(Ed'i-pus  Ty-ran'nus,  or  (Edipus  the  King.  This  tragedy  is 
considered,  by  perhaps  the  majority  of  qualified  critics  to  be 
not  only  the  best  work  of  Sophocles,  but  the  "bright  consum- 
mate flower"  of  all  Greek  tragedy. 

For  our  translator  we  select  Professor  Campbell,  Mr.  E. 
H.  Plump'tre  has  produced  excellent  metrical  versions  of 
both  Sophocles  and  ^schylus.  There  is  perhaps  little  to 
choose  in  point  of  scholarship  between  his  work  and  the  work 
of  the  translator  upon  whom  we  decide  chiefly  to  depend  in 
our  reproduction  of  Sophocles.  In  his  English  construc- 
tion, however,  Mr.  Plumptre  is  somewhat  less  easy  to  follow 
than  his  rival.  A  third  translator  of  Sophocles  we  shall  have 
occasion  to  speak  of  presently.  Professor  Lewis  Campbell  is 
Professor  of  Greek  in  the  University  of  St.  Andrew's,  in  Glas- 
gow. He  is,  possibly,  less  a  natural  poet  than  an  accom- 
plished Greek  scholar;  but  he  versifies  well,  and  our  readers 
may  certainly  trust  his  affectionate,  yet  sufficiently  independ- 


156  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

ent,   fidelity  to  his  original.     We  begin  with  the  argument 
prefixed  to  the  play  by  Mr.  Campbell : 

*'  La'i-us,  the  descendant  of  Cadmus,  and  king  of  Thebes 
(or  Theb^,)  had  been  told  by  an  oracle  that,  if  a  son  were 
born  to  him  by  his  wife  Jocasta,  the  boy  would  be  his  father's 
death. 

"  Under  such  auspices,  CEdipus  was  born,  and  to  elude 
the  prophecy  was  exposed  by  his  parents  on  Mount  Cith-ae'- 
ron.  But  he  was  saved  by  a  compassionate  shepherd 
and  became  the  adopted  son  of  Pol'y-bus,  king  of  Corinth. 
When  he  grew  up  he  was  troubled  by  a  rumor  that  he  was 
not  his  father's  son.  He  went  to  consult  the  oracle  of 
Apollo  at  Delphi,  and  was  told — not  of  his  origin  but  of  his 
destiny— that  he  should  be  guilty  of  parricide  and  incest. 

'^  He  was  too  horror-stricken  to  return  to  Corinth,  and  as 
he  traveled  the  other  way,  he  met  Laius  going  from  Thebes 
to  Delphi.  The  travelers  quarreled,  and  the  son  killed  his 
father,  but  knew  not  whom  he  had  slain.  He  went  onward 
till  he  came  near  Thebes,  where  the  Sphinx  was  making 
havoc  of  the  noblest  citizens.  CEdipus  solved  her  riddle 
and  overcame  her,  and,  as  Laius  did  not  return,  was  rewarded 
with  the  regal  sceptre, — and  with  the  hand  of  the  queen. 

"He  reigned  nobly  and  prosperously,  and  lived  happily 
with  Jocasta,  by  whom  he  had  four  children. 

"  But  after  some  years  a  plague  descended  on  the  people, 
and  Apollo,  on  being  inquired  of,  answered  that  it  was  for 
Laius's  death.  The  act  of  regicide  must  be  avenged.  CEdi- 
pus undertakes  the  task  of  discovering  the  murderer, — and 
in  the  same  act  discovers  his  own  birth,  and  the  fulfillment  of 
both  the  former  oracles. 

"  Jocasta  hangs  herself,  and  CEdipus,  in  his  despair,  puts 
out  his  eyes." 

Our  readers  will  be  curious  to  see  the  text  of  the  Sphinx's 
celebrated  riddle.  We  present  it  here,  versified,  as  we  find  it 
in  Mr.  Plumptre's  volume  of  Sophocles  translated : 


Sophocles.  157 


There  lives  upon  earth  a  being,  two-footed,  yea,  and  with  four  feet, 
Yea,  and  with  three  feet,  too,  yet  his  voice  continues  unchanging  ; 
And,  lo  !  of  all  things  that  move  in  earth,  in  heaven,  or  in  ocean. 
He  only  changes  his  nature,  and  yet  when  on  most  feet  he  walketh 
Then  is  the  speed  of  his  limbs  most  weak  and  utterly  powerless. 

The  following  is  the  solution  furnished  by  CEdipus.  Again 
we  make  the  transfer  from  Mr.  Plumptre's  volume  : 

Hear  thou  against  thy  will,  thou  dark-winged  Muse  of  the  slaughtered, 

Hear  from  my  lips  the  end,  bringing  a  close  to  thy  crime  : 

Man  is  it  thou  hast  described,  who,  when  on  earth  he  appeareth. 

First  as  a  babe  from  the  womb,  four-footed  creeps  on  his  way, 

Then  when  old  age  cometh  on,  and  the  burden  of  years  weighs  full  heavy, 

Bending  his  shoulders  and  neck,  as  a  third  foot  useth  his  staff. 

It  is  the  object  of  Sophocles  to  present  at  first  the  protag- 
onist of  his  play,  King  CEdipus,  in  the  character  of  a  man 
supremely  prosperous  and  happy.  The  prosperity  and  the 
happiness  are,  however,  not  real.  This  the  spectators  of  the 
play,  familiar  beforehand  with  the  story  of  CEdipus,  per- 
fectly understand.  Their  interest  in  the  spectacle  is  not 
the  interest  of  persons  awaiting  with  curiosity  an  unforeseen 
development  of  plot.  It  is  rather  the  interest  of  observers 
who,  themselves  in  the  secret  of  the  future,  contemplate 
the  conduct  of  persons  involved  in  a  destiny  of  which  they, 
the  observed,  are  unaware. 

We  may  omit  the  opening  scene,  in  which  the  sympathies 
of  the  spectators  are  by  the  poet  skillfully  engaged  on  be- 
half of  King  CEdipus  unconsciously  in  the  toils  of  fate.  CEdi- 
pus seems  a  good  ruler  established  in  the  well-deserved 
affection  of  his  people.  These,  represented  by  a  priest  and 
a  train  of  suppliants,  wait  on  him,  with  touching  trust — as  of 
children — to  have  him  devise  for  them  a  relief  from  the 
plague  under  which  they  suffer.  They  thus  awaiting,  Creon, 
brother-in-law  to  the  king,  arrives  with  a  response  from 
Apollo.  Apollo  directed  that  inquisition  be  made  for  the 
murderers  of  King   Laius,  predecessor  to  CEdipus,  and  con- 


158  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

dign  punishment  be  inflicted  upon  them.  CEdipus,  ill  know- 
ing, what  however  the  spectators  of  the  tragedy  always  well 
knew,  that  now  the  dreadful  meshes  of  destiny  were  begin- 
ning to  be  woven  about  the  feet  of  the  hapless  king — CEdipus, 
we  say,  with  zeal  undertook  to  hunt  the  murderers  out.  The 
chorus  entering  here  chant  their  part  in  concert.  It  is  a 
mournful  song  of  plaint  and  of  appeal  for  deliverance  from 
the  plague.  CEdipus  comes  in  again,  while  this  wail  is  lifted, 
and  replies  reassuringly.  His  royal  mandate  he  issues  sol- 
emnly as  follows:  (the  spectators  shudder  with  pity  and 
horror,  considering  how,  in  the  terms  of  this  edict,  uncon- 
ciously  the  king  is  denouncing  himself:) 

Whoever  is  the  author  of  the  deed, 
I  here  prohibit  all  within  this  realm 
Whereof  I  wield  the  sovereignty  and  sway. 
To  admit  him  to  their  doors  or  speak  with  him 
Or  share  with  him  in  vow  or  sacrifice 
Or  lustral  rite.     All  men  shall  thrust  him  forth. 
Our  dark  pollution,  so  to  me  revealed 
By  this  day's  oracle  from  Pytho's  cell. 

Thus  firm  is  mine  allegiance  to  the  God 
And  your  dead  sovereign  in  this  holy  war. 

And  now  the  king,  blindfold  to  fate,  imprecates — in  form 
as  upon  another — upon  himself,  a  fearful  curse  : 

Now  on  the  murderer,  whether  he  lurk 

In  lonely  guilt,  or  with  a  numerous  band, 

I  here  pronounce  this  curse  :  let  his  crushed  life 

Perish  forlorn  in  hopeless  misery. 

Next,  I  pray  Heaven,  should  he  or  they  be  housed 

With  my  own  knowledge  in  my  home,  that  I 

May  suffer  all  I  imprecate  on  them. 

A  colloquy  ensues  between  CEdipus  and  the  chorus,  most 
artfully  contrived  by  Sophocles  to  increase  the  tension  of  the 
situation.  A  certain  blind  prophet,  Tei-re'si-as  by  name — 
Milton  mentions  him  for  parallel  with  himself  in  the  Para- 
dise   Lost — is  to   be   invoked.     This  prophet   is   reluctant 


Sophocles.  159 


to  appear,  knowing  in  himself  what  a  burden  he  bears  of 
doom  for  the  king.  Our  readers  must  see  for  themselves 
how  much  skill  is  displayed  by  Sophocles  in  the  art  of  sus- 
pending progress  in  order  to  prolong  for  spectators  their 
luxury  of  horror  in  watching  the  sure-footed  slow  approach 
of  Nem'e-sis  to  the  still  unconscious  victim.  The  chorus,  a 
company  of  Theban  elders,  begin — speaking,  observe,  col- 
lectively in  the  singular  number — by  purging  themselves  : 

Under  the  shadow  of  thy  curse,  my  lord, 
I  will  speak.     I  slew  him  not,  nor  can  I  show 
The  man  who  slew.     Phoebus,  who  gave  the  word, 
Should  name  the  criminal. 
(Ed.  Thy  thought  is  just, 

But  man  may  not  compel  the  gods. 
Ch.  Again, 

That  failing,  I  perceive  a  second  way. 
(Ed.  Were  it  a  third,  spare  not  to  speak  it  forth. 
Ch.  I  know  of  one  alone  whose  royal  mind 

Sees  all  King  Phoebus  sees — Teiresias, — he 
Infallibly  would  guide  us  in  this  search. 
(Ed.  That  doth  not  count  among  my  deeds  undone. 
By  Creon's  counsel  I  have  sent  twice  o'er 
To  seek  him,  and  I  muse  at  his  delay. 
Ch.  The  rumor  that  remains  is  old  and  dim. 
(Ed.  What  rumor  ?     Let  no  tale  be  left  untried. 
Ch.  'Twas  said  he  perished  by  some  wandering  band. 
(Ed.  But  the  one  witness  is  removed  from  ken. 
Ch.  Well,  if  the  man  be  capable  of  fear. 

He  will  not  stay  when  he  hath  heard  thy  curse. 
(Ed.  Words  have  no  terror  for  the  soul  that  dares 
Such  deeds. 
Ch.  Yet  is  there  one  who  shall  convict  him. 

For  see  where  now  they  lead  the  holy  seer, 
Whom  sacred  Truth  inspires  alone  of  men. 

The  situation  grows  gradually  more  intense  throughout  the 
conversation  that  now  follows  between  the  king  and  the  seer. 
The  king  speaks  first  in  the  character  of  a  gracious  sover- 
eign paying  just  tribute,  that  ought  to  be  appreciated,  to  a 
venerable  prophet.     The  stubborn  reticence  of  the  prophet 


i 
I 

1 60  College  Greek  Cowse  in  English. 

___  .  , 

— reticence  inspired,  the  spectator  understood  how,  but  the  ■ 

king  did  not  know  or  guess — at  last  irritated  QEdipus.     The  ! 

baffled  monarch  begins  to  divine  the  reason  for  the  strange  ] 

behavior  of  Teiresias — but  to  divine  it   utterly  wrong.     He  ^ 
suspects  his  brother-in-law,  Creon,  of  designs  against  him- 
self.    Creon,  CEdipus  thinks,  has  set  Teiresias  on  to  engender 

among  the  people  distrust  of  their  king.     But  the  dialogue  is  ; 

too  important  not  to  be  shown  somewhat  at  large :  i 

CEd.  O  thou  whose  universal  thought  surveys  ■ 

All  knowledge  and  all  mysteries,  in  heaven  ~\ 
And  on  the  earth  beneath,  thy  mind  perceives, 

Teiresias,  though  thine  outward  eye  be  dark,  'i 

What  plague  is  wasting  Thebe,  who  in  thee,  ; 

Great  sir,  finds  her  one  saviour,  her  sole  guide.  ' 

We  cast  ourselves  on  thee  :  and  beautiful  \ 

It  is  to  use  the  power  one  hath  for  good.  • 

Tei.  Ah  !  terrible  is  knowledge  to  the  man  ' 

Whom  knowledge  profits  not.     This  well  I  knew,  \ 

But  had  forgotten.     Else  had  I  ne'er  come  hither. 
(Ed.  Why  dost  thou  bring  a  mind  so  full  of  gloom  ?  •  . 

Tei.  Let  me  go  home.     Thy  part  and  mine  to-day 

Will  best  be  borne,  if  thou  obey  me  there.  \ 

CEd.  Rebellious  and  ungrateful !  to  deprive 

The  state  that  reared  thee  of  thine  utterance  now.  ; 

Tei.  Thy  speech,  I  see,  is  crossing  thine  intent ;  j 

And  I  would  shield  me  from  the  like  mishap. 
(Ed.  Nay,  if  thou  knowest,  turn  thee  not  away  : 

Lo,  all  these  suppliants  are  entreating  thee  ! 
Tei.  Yea,  for  ye  all  are  blind.     Never  will  I 

Utter  the  sound  that  shall  reveal  thine  evil. 
(Ed.  So,  then,  thou  hast  the  knowledge  of  the  crime 

And  wilt  not  tell,  but  rather  wouldst  betray 

This  people,  and  destroy  thy  fatherland ! 
Tei.  You  press  me  to  no  purpose.     I'll  not  pain 

Thee,  nor  myself.     Thou  wilt  hear  nought  from  me. 
(Ed.  How  ?     Miscreant !  thy  stubbornness  would  rouse 

Wrath  in  a  breast  of  stone.     Wilt  thou  still  keep 

That  silent,  hard,  impenetrable  mien  ? 


Sophocles.  i6i 


Tei.  You  censure  me  for  my  harsh  mood.     Your  own 

Dwells  unsuspected  with  you.     Me  you  blame  ! 
(Ed.  Who  can  be  mild  and  gentle,  when  thou  speakest 

Such  words  to  mock  this  people  ? 
Tei.  It  will  come : 

Although  I  bury  it  in  silence  here. 
CEd.  Must  not  the  king  be  told  of  what  will  come  ? 
Tei.  No  word  from  me.     At  this,  an  if  thou  wilt, 

Rage  to  the  height  of  passionate  vehemence. 
(Ed.  Ay,  and  my  passion  shall  declare  my  thought. 

'Tis  clear  to  me  as  daylight,  thou  hast  been 

The  arch-plotter  of  this  deed  ;  yea,  thou  hast  done 

All  but  the  actual  blow.     Hadst  thou  thy  sight, 

I  would  pronounce  thee  the  sole  murderer. 
Tei.  Ay,  sayst  thou  so  ? — I  charge  thee  to  abide 

By  that  thou  hast  proclaimed  ;  and  from  this  hour 

Speak  not  to  any  Theban  nor  to  me. 

Thou  art  the  vile  polluter  of  theland. 
(Ed.  O  void  of  shame  !     What  wickedness  is  this  ? 

What  power  will  give  thee  refuge  for  such  guilt  ? 
Tei.  The  might  of  truth  is  scatheless.     I  am  free. 
(Ed.  Whence  gottest  thou  this  truth  ?     Not  from  thine  art. 
Tei.  From  thee,  whose  rage  impelled  my  backward  tongue. 
(Ed.  Say  it  once  more,  that  I  may  know  the  drift. 
Tei.  Was  it  so  dark  ?     Or  wouldst  thou  tempt  my  voice  ? 
(Ed.  I  cannot  say  'twas  clear.     Speak  it  again. 
Tei.  I  say  thou  art  the  murderer  whom  thou  seekest. 
(Ed.  Again  that  baleful  word  !     But  thou  shalt  rue. 
Tei.  Shall  I  speak  something  more,  to  feed  thy  wrath  ? 
(Ed.  All  is  but  idleness.     Say  what  thou  wilt. 
Tei.  I  tell  thee  thou  art  living  unawares 

In  shameful  commerce  with  thy  near'st  of  blood, 

Ignorant  of  the  abyss  wherein  thou  liest. 
(Ed.  Mean'st  thou  to  triumph  in  offending  still  ? 
Tei.  Yes,  if  the  might  of  truth  be  any  thing. 
(Ed.  It  is,  for  other  men,  but  not  for  thee, 

Blind  as  thou  art  in  eyes  and  ears  and  mind. 
Tei.  O  miserable  reproach,  which  all  who  now 

Behold  thee,  soon  shall  thunder  forth  on  thee  ! 
(Ed.  Nursed  in  unbroken  night,  thou  canst  not  harm, 

Or  me,  or  any  man  who  seeth  the  day. 


1 62  College  Greek  Course  in  English.  i 

Tei.  No,  not  from  me  proceeds  thy  fall  ;  the  God,  \ 

Who  cares  for  this,  is  able  to  perform  it. 

CEd.  Came  this  device  from  Creon  or  thyself? 

Tei.  Not  Creon  :    thou  art  thy  sole  enemy. 

(Ed.  O  wealth  and  sovereign  power  and  high  success 

Attained  through  wisdom  and  admired  of  men,  I 

What  boundless  jealousies  environ  you  !  I 

But  for  thy  reverend  look  i 

Thou  hadst  atoned  thy  trespass  on  the  spot  !  i 

The  chorus  intervene  with  the  soft   answer  which  turns  j 

away  wrath  :  ; 

Ch.  Your  friends  would  humbly  deprecate  the  wrath  ^ 

That  sounds  both  in  your  speech,  my  lord,  and  his.  ^ 

That  is  not  what  we  need,  but  to  discern 
How  best  to  solve  the  heavenly  oracle. 

Teiresias  has  time,  during  this  short  intervention  from  the  ^ 

chorus,  to  collect  himself.     He  resumes  speech  to  CEdipus,  ' 

and   enigmatically,  with  stern  truth,  threatens  the  impend- 
ing doom : 

Tei.  Though  thou  art  sovereign  here,  the  right  of  speech  I 

Is  my  prerogative  no  less.     Not  thee  \ 

I  serve,  but  Phoebus.     He  protects  my  life.  •■ 

Small  need  of  Creon's  arm  to  shelter  me  ! 
Now,  then  :  my  blindness  is  thy  theme  : — thou  hast 
Thine  eyes,  nor  seest  where  thou  art  sunk  in  woe, 
What  halls  thou  dost  inhabit,  or  with  whom  : 

Knowest  not  from  whence  thou  art — nay,  to  thy  kin,  I 

Buried  in  death  and  here  above  the  ground,  | 

Unwittingly  art  a  most  grievous  foe.  >  \ 

And  when  thy  father's  and  thy  mother's  curse  ] 

With  fearful  tread  shall  drive  thee  from  the  land,  ^ 

On  both  sides  lashing  thee, — thine  eye  so  clear 
Seeing  but  darkness  in  that  day, — O,  then. 

What  region  will  not  shudder  at  thy  cry  ?  | 

What  echo  of  Cithaeron  will  be  mute. 

When  thou  perceiv'st,  what  bride-song  in  thy  hall  \ 

Wafted  thy  gallant  bark  with  flattering  gale  j 


Sophocles. 


163 


To  anchor, — where  ?    And  other  store  of  ill 

Thou  seest  not,  that  shall  show  thee  as  thou  art, 

Merged  with  thy  children  in  one  horror  of  birth. 

Then  slander  noble  Creon,  and  revile 

My  sacred  utterance  !     No  life  on  earth 

More  wretchedly  shall  be  crushed  out,  than  thine. 


TEIRESIAS  DENOUNCING  (EDIPUS. 


If  our   readers    are  a   little  perplexed  with  surprise  that, 
after   intimations,   first   so    explicit,  and   then,  though  mys- 


164  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

terious,  so  significant,  from  Teiresias,  CEdipus  should  not  rec- 
ognize himself  for  the  one  pointed  out  as  murderer  of  Laius, 
why,  they  will,  in  their  minds,  be  criticising  Sophocles  ex- 
actly as  he  has  often  been  criticised  before.  But  remember, 
though  (Edipus  was  indeed  conscious  with  himself  of  having 
once  killed  a  man,  the  circumstances  of  that  killing  were 
such  as  not  at  all  to  identify  in  his  thought  the  victim  with 
King  Laius,  or  in  truth  with  any  king.  The  dark  allusions  of 
Teiresias  to  crime  on  CEdipus's  part  committed  against 
father  and  mother,  would  naturally  all  be  understood  by  the 
king  to  respect  his  Corinthian  parents,  whom  he  had  for- 
saken for  the  very  purpose  of  not  committing  against  them 
the  crimes  foretold.  Besides,  OEdipus,  being  in  a  towering 
passion  when  Teiresias  let  slip  the  most  explicit  of  his  accu- 
sations, was  then  not  mentally  qualified  to  get  the  full  force 
of  the  language  that  he  heard. 

At  any  rate,  represented  as  still  unaware  of  being  himself 
the  murderer  sought,  CEdipus  burst  out  in  a  fierce  Begone ! 
to  Teiresias.  Teiresias,  going,  turns  and  aims  this  parting 
Parthian  arrow  at  the  king : 

Tei.  I  go,  but  I  will  speak.     Why  should  I  fear 

Thy  frown  ?     Thou  ne'er  canst  ruin  me.     The  word 

Wherefore  I  came,  is  this.     The  man  you  seek 

With  threatening  proclamation  of  the  guilt 

Of  Laius's  blood,  that  man  is  here  to-day. 

An  alien  sojourner  supposed  from  far, 

But  by  and  by  he  shall  be  certified 

A  true-born  Theban  :  nor  will  such  event 

Bring  him  great  joy  ;  for,  blind  from  having  sight 

And  beggared  from  high  fortune,  with  a  staff 

In  stranger  lands  he  shall  feel  forth  his  way  ; 

Shown  living  with  the  children  of  his  loins, 

Their  brother  and  their  sire,  and  to  the  womb 

That  bare  him,  husband-son,  and,  to  his  father. 

Parricide  and  co-rival.     Now  go  in. 

Ponder  my  words  ;  and  if  thou  find  them  false, 

Then  say  my  power  is  naught  in  prophecy. 


Sophocles.  165 


The  chorus  now  comes  in  with  one  of  those  lyrics  of  sen- 
timent and  reflection  which  give  voice  to  the  supposed  feel- 
ings of  an  ideal  spectator  present  in  the  action  itself  to  see 
what  is  done  and  to  hear  what  is  said.  The  occurrence  of  a 
lyric  strain  from  the  chorus  seems  after  a  sort  to  divide  the 
tragedy  into  acts  or  scenes.  We  give  this  choric  song.  It 
will  be  observed  that  the  chorus  maintains  here  the  con- 
ventional character  of  choruses  in  being  as  neutral  as  possible, 

and  conservative : 

Chorus. 

Whom  hath  the  voice  from  Pytho's  rocky  throne 

Loudly  declared  to  have  done 

Horrors  unnamable  with  blood-stained  hand  ?  . 

With  speed  of  storm-swift  car 

'Tis  time  he  fled  afar 

With  mighty  footsteps  hurrying  from  the  land. 

For,  armed  with  lightning  brand, 

The  son  of  Zeus  assails  him  with  fierce  bounds, 

Hunting  with  Death's  inevitable  hounds. 

Late  from  divine  Paniassus*  snow-tipped  height 

This  utterance  sprang  to  light, 

To  track  by  every  path  the  man  unknown. 

Through  woodland  caverns  deep 

And  o'er  the  rocky  steep 

Like  vanquish'd  bull  he  roams  the  wild  alone, 

With  none  to  share  his  moan. 

Shunning  that  prophet-voice's  central*  sound, 

Which  ever  lives,  and  haunts  him,  hovering  round. 

The  reverend  Seer  hath  stirred  me  with  strange  awe, 
Gainsay  I  cannot,  nor  yet  think  him  true. 
I  know  not  how  to  speak.     My  fluttering  heart 
In  wild  expectancy  sees  nothing  clear. 
Things  past  and  future  with  the  present  doubt 
Are  shrouded  in  one  mist.     What  quarrel  lay 
'Twixt  Cadmus*  issue  and  Corinthus'  heir 
Was  never  shown  me,  from  old  times  till  now. 
By  one  on  whose  sure  word  I  might  rely 

*  Proceeding  from  Delphi,  the  centre  of  the  earth. 


1 66  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


In  running  counter  to  the  king's  fair  fame, 
Wreaking  for  Laius  his  mysterious  death. 

Zeus  and  Apollo  scan  the  ways  of  men 

With  perfect  vision.     But  of  mortals  here 

Why  should  the  prophet  have  more  gifts  than  I  ? 

What  certain  proof  is  told  ?    A  man  through  wit 

May  pass  another's  wisdom  in  the  race. 

But  never,  till  I  see  the  word  fulfilled, 

Will  I  confirm  their  clamor  against  the  king. 

In  open  day  the  female  monster  came  : 

Then  perfect  witness  made  his  wisdom  clear. 

Thebe  has  tried  him  and  delights  in  him. 

Wherefore  my  heart  shall  still  believe  him  good. 

Creon  enters  at  this  point  to  protest,  publicly,  against 
the  criminations  of  himself  indulged  in  by  the  king.  The 
chorus,  with  solemn  non-committal  platitudes,  avoids,  and 
seeks  to  pacify,  Creon's  indignation.  In  reply  to  Creon's 
first  protesting  speech  against  CEdipus,  the  chorus  volunteers 
a  charitable  suggestion  on  the  king's  behalf,  which  gives  oc- 
casion to  a  highly  characteristic  exchange,  between  Creon 
and  the  chorus,  of  question  on  the  one  side,  and  evasive 
answer  on  the  other : 

Ch.  Perchance  'twas  but  the  sudden  flash  of  wrath, 

Not  the  deliberate  judgment  of  the  souL 
Cr.  Whence  came  the  fancy — that  Teiresias  spake 

False  prophecies,  set  on  to  this  by  me  ? 
Ch.  Such  was  the  word  ;  I  know  not  how  advised. 
Cr.  And  were  the  eyes  and  spirit  not  distraught. 

When  the  tongue  uttered  this  to  ruin  me  ? 
Ch.  I  cannot  say.     To  what  my  betters  do 

I  am  blind.     But  see,  the  king  comes  forth  again. 

The  Stormy  altercation  that  ensues  when  CEdipus  re-enters, 
between  him  and  his  indignant  brother-in-law  Creon,  with  the 
sage  interjection  from  the  chorus  of  remarks  designed  as 
buffers  to  soften  the  shock  between  the  angry  brothers-in-law 
— all  this  we  omit. 


Sophocles.  167 


Jocasta,  wife  and  queen,  enters.  She  upbraids  her  husband 
and  her  brother  with  much  impartiality.  Both  feel  obliged 
each  to  vindicate  himself.  The  chorus,  divided  up  into  five 
different  groups,  take  part,  with  interruptions  of  the  usual 
calm  and  commonplace  choric  wisdom.  The  purport  of  what 
all,  Jocasta  and  the  groups  of  chorus,  propound  is,  that  the 
two  estranged  kinsmen  be  reconciled.  CEdipus  urges  that 
they  are  bent  on  dooming  him  to  death  or  banishment, 
whereupon  the  fifth  group  of  chorus  breaks  forth  in  this  lyric 
protest  and  adjuration : 

Ch.  5.  No,  by  the  Sun  I  swear, 

Vaunt-courier  of  the  host  of  heaven. 
For  may  I  die  the  last  of  deaths, 
Unblest  of  God  or  friend, 
If  e'er  such  thought  were  mine. 
But  O I  this  pining  land 
Afflicts  my  hapless  soul, 
To  think  that  to  her  past  and  present  woe 
She  must  add  this,  which  springs  from  your  debate. 

The  foregoing  invocation,  or  conjuration,  from  the  chorus, 
of  Helios,  would,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  by  our  readers, 
be  far  more  impressive  to  spectators  of  the  play  who — as  was 
the  case  at  tragic  exhibitions  in  ancient  Athens — could  follow 
the  uplifted  faces  of  the  actors,  while,  with  hands  also  point- 
ing thither,  they  looked  toward  the  open  sky  and  beheld 
there  the  glorious  sun  himself,  visible  to  all,  shining  down 
from  his  majestic  station — far  more  impressive,  we  say,  than 
can  well  be  imagined  by  those  who  have  only  seen  stage 
representations  indoors  by  the  garish  artificial  light  of  the 
modern  theatre. 

Creon,  after  a  few  more  exchanges  of  altercation  with  CEdi- 
pus, withdraws,  and  the  chorus,  in  groups  again,  first,  second, 
third,  fourth,  fifth,  intervene  with  sage  counsel  to  the  king 
and  his  queen,  Jocasta.  They  beg  CEdipus  to  explain  to  Jo- 
casta the  situation  between  himself  and  Creon,  which  he  in 


1 68  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

brief  accordingly  does.  Jocasta  thereupon  seeks  to  re-assure 
the  mind  of  CEdipus,  disturbed  by  the  sinister  soothsaying 
of  Teiresias — as  follows  : 

Hearken  to  me,  and  set  your  heart  at  rest 
On  that  you  speak  of,  whilst  I  make  you  see 
No  mortal  thing  is  touched  by  prophecy. 
Of  that  I'll  give  thee  proof  concise  and  clear. 
Word  came  to  Laius  once,  I  will  not  say 
From  Phoebus*  self,  but  from  his  ministers, 
The  king  should  be  destroyed  by  his  own  son, 
If  son  were  born  to  him  from  me.     What  followed  ? 
Laius  was  slain,  by  robbers  from  abroad, 
Saith  Rumor,  in  a  cross- way :  but  the  child 
Grew  not  three  days,  ere  by  my  husband's  hand 
His  feet  were  locked,  and  he  was  cast  and  left 
By  messengers  on  the  waste  mountain  wold. 
So  Phoebus  neither  brought  upon  the  boy 
His  father's  murder,  nor  on  Laius 
The  thing  he  greatly  feared,  death  by  his  son. 
Such  issue  came  of  prophesying  words. 
Therefore  regard  them  not.     God  can  himself 
With  ease  bring  forth  what  for  his  ends  he  needs. 

Jocasta's  encouraging  discourages.  Quite  unawares  she 
wakes  unwelcome  memories  in  the  breast  of  CEdipus.  Con- 
ceive how  an  Athenian  audience,  sharing  the  dreadful  secret 
of  destiny  still  veiled  to  CEdipus,  would  hang,  in  a  luxury  of 
anticipative  horror  heightened  and  softened  with  sympathy, 
on  the  conversation  that  now  follows  between  the  king  and 
the  queen — a  conversation  prepared  for  with  such  skill  by 
the  poet.  This  conversation  we  give  in  full;  for  the  whole 
scene,  brought  to  its  just  completion  by  the  solemn  chant  of 
the  chorus  at  the  end,  is  one  of  the  finest  dramatic  passages 
in  Sophocles.  GEdipus,  remember,  has  a  dreadful  misgiving, 
as  he  listens  to  the  story  told  by  Jocasta: 

(Ed.  What  strange  emotions  overcloud  my  soul. 
Stirred  to  her  depths  on  hearing  this  thy  tale  ! 


Sophocles.  169 


Jo.  What  sudden  change  is  this  ?    What  is  thy  thought  ? 
CEd.  Did  I  not  hear  thee  say,  King  Laius 

Was  at  a  cross-road  overpowered  and  slain  ? 
Jo.  So  ran  the  talk  that  yet  is  current  here. 
(Ed.  Where  was  the  scene  of  this  unhappy  blow  ? 
Jo.  Phocis  the  land  is  named :  the  parted  ways 
Lead  from  one  point  to  Daulia  and  to  Delphi. 
CEd.  And  since  the  event  how  much  of  time  is  passed? 
yo.  'Twas  just  ere  you  appeared  with  prospering  speed 

And  took  the  kingdom,  that  the  tidings  came. 
(Ed.  What  are  thy  purposes  against  me,  Zeus? 

Jo.  Why  thus  intent  on  such  a  thought,  O  king  ? 
(Ed.  Nay,  ask  me  not.     But  tell  me  first  what  height 
Had  Laius,  and  what  share  of  manly  bloom  ? 
Jo.  Tall,  with  dark  locks  just  sprinkled  o'er  with  gray : 
In  shape  and  bearing  much  resembling  thee. 
(Ed.  O  heavy  fate  !     How  all  unknowingly 

I  laid  that  dreadful  curse  on  my  own  head ! 
Jo.  How? 

I  tremble  as  I  gaze  on  thee,  O  king  ! 
(Ed.  The  fear  appalls  me  that  the  seer  can  see. 

Tell  one  thing  more,  to  make  me  doubly  sure. 
Jo.  I  am  loth  to  speak,  but,  when  you  ask,  I  will. 
(Ed.  Had  he  scant  following,  or,  as  princes  use, 

Full  numbers  of  a  well-appointed  train  ? 
Jo.  There  were  but  five  in  all :  a  herald  one  : 
And  Laius  traveled  in  the  only  car. 
(Ed.  Woe  !  woe !     'Tis  clear  as  daylight.     Who  was  he 
That  brought  you  this  sad  message,  O  my  queen? 
Jo.  A  home-slave,  who  alone  returned  alive. 
(Ed.  And  is  he  now  at  hand  witliin  the  house  ? 
Jo.  No,  truly.     When  he  came  from  yonder  scene, 
And  found  thee  reigning  after  Laius'  death, 
He  touched  my  hand,  and  plied  an  urgent  prayer 
That  I  would  send  him  to  o'erlook  the  flocks 
And  rural  pastures,  so  to  live  as  far 
As  might  be  from  the  very  thought  of  Thebes. 
And  he  obtained  from  me  his  suit.     No  slave 
Had  richlier  merited  such  boon  than  he. 
(Ed.  Can  he  be  brought  again  immediately? 
Jo.  Of  course  he  can.     But  why  desire  it  so  ? 
8 


lyo  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

(Ed.  Words  have  by  me  been  spoken,  O  my  queen, 
Which  furnish  too  much  cause  for  that  desire. 
yo.  Then  come  he  shall.     But  I  may  surely  claim 
To  hear  what  in  thy  state  goes  heavily. 

(Ed,  Thou  shalt  not  lose  thy  rights  in  such  an  hour, 
When  I  am  harrowed  thus  with  doubt  and  fear. 
To  whom  more  worthy  should  I  tell  my  grief? 
My  father  was  Corinthian  Polybus, 
My  mother  Dorian  Merope — I  lived 
A  prmce  among  that  people,  till  a  chance 
Encountered  me,  worth  wonder,  but,  though  strange, 
Not  worth  the  anxious  thoughts  it  waked  in  me. 
For  at  a  feasting  once  over  the  wine 
One  deep  in  liquor  called  to  me  aloud, 
Hail,  thou  false  foundling  of  a  foster-sire  ! 
That  day  with  pain  I  held  my  passion  down. 
But  straightway  on  the  morrow  I  went  near 
And  questioned  both  my  parents,  who  were  fierce 
In  wrath  at  him  whose  lips  had  let  this  fall. 
For  their  part  I  was  satisfied,  but  still 
It  galled  me,  for  the  rumor  would  not  die. 

Unknown  to  both  my  parents  then  I  went 
To  Pytho,  where,  as  touching  my  desire, 
Phoebus  denied  me  ;  but  brake  forth  instead 
With  other  oracles  of  misery 
And  hoiTible  misfortune,  how  that  I 
Must  know  my  mother's  shame,  and  cause  to  appear 
A  birth  intolerable  to  human  view, 
And  do  to  death  the  author  of  my  life. 
I  fled  forth  at  the  word,  and,  measuring  now 
Corinthia's  region  by  the  stars  of  heaven. 
Went  roaming,  where  I  never  might  behold 
Those  shameful  prophecies  fulfilled  on  me. 
So  traveling  on,  I  came  even  to  the  place 
Where,  as  thou  tell'st,  the  King  of  Thebe  fell. 
And,  O  my  wife,  I  will  hide  naught  from  thee. 
When  I  drew  near  the  cross-road  of  your  tale, 
A  herald,  and  a  man  upon  a  car, 
Like  your  description,  there  encountered  me. 
And  he  who  went  before,  and  he  himself 
The  gray-beard,  sought  to  thrust  me  from  the  path. 


Sophocles.  171 


Then  in  mine  angry  mood  I  sharply  struck  • 

The  driver-man  that  turned  me  from  the  way  ;  ^ 

Which  when  the  elder  saw,  he  watched  for  me  i 

As  I  passed  by,  and  from  the  chariot-seat  ] 

Smote  full  upon  my  head  with  the  fork'd  goad  ;  ' 

But  paid  no  equal  price,  for,  by  a  blow                                  /  \ 
From  this  right  hand,  smit  with  my  staff,  he  fell 

Instantly  rolled  out  of  the  car  supine.  ^ 

I  slew  them  every  one.     Now  if  that  stranger  ' 

Had  aught  in  common  with  King  Laius,  i 

What  wretch  on  earth  was  e'er  so  lost  as  I  ?  i 

Whom  have  the  Heavens  so  followed  with  their  hate?  1 

No  house  of  Theban  or  of  foreigner  ^ 

Must  any  more  receive  me,  none  henceforth  ' 

Must  speak  to  me,  but  push  me  from  the  door !  < 

I,  I  have  laid  this  curse  on  mine  own  head  ?                            •  j 

Yea,  and  this  arm  that  slew  him  now  enfolds  i 
His  queen.     O  cruel  stain  !     Am  I  not  vile  ? 

Polluted  utterly  !     Yes,  I  must  flee,  ^ 

And,  lost  to  Thebe,  nevermore  behold  \ 

My  friends,  nor  tread  my  country,  lest  I  meet  J 

In  marriage  mine  own  mother,  and  bring  low  1 
His  head  that  gave  me  life  and  reared  my  youth, 

My  father,  Polybus.     Ah  !  right  were  he  ! 

Who  should  declare  some  god  of  cruel  mood  : 
Had  sent  this  trouble  upon  my  soul  !     Ye  powers. 
Worshiped  in  holiness,  ne'er  may  I  see 

That  day,  but  perish  from  the  sight  of  men,  ' 
Ere  sins  like  these  are  branded  on  my  name  ! 

Ch,  Thy  fear  is  ours,  O  king  :  yet  lose  not  hope,  ' 
Till  thou  hast  heard  him  who  beheld  the  deed. 

(Ed.  Ay,  that  is  all  I  still  have  left  of  hope,  ; 

To  bide  the  coming  of  the  shepherd  man.  i 

yo.  What  eager  thought  attends  his  presence  here  ?  1 

(Ed.  I'll  tell  thee.     Should  his  speech  accord  with  thine  ] 
My  life  stands  clear  from  this  calamity. 

yo.     What  word  of  mine  agreed  not  with  the  scene? 

(Ed.  You  said  he  spake  of  robbers  in  a  band  i 
As  having  slain  him.     Now  if  he  shall  still 

Persist  in  the  same  number,  I  am  free.  \ 

One  man  and  many  cannot  be  the  same.                 -  i 


1/2  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

But  should  he  tell  of  one  lone  traveler, 

Then,  unavoidably,  this  falls  on  me. 
Jo.  So  'twas  given  out  by  him,  be  sure  of  that. 

He  cannot  take  it  back.     Not  I  alone 

But  all  the  people  heard  him  speak  it  so. 

And  should  he  swerve  in  aught  from  his  first  tale, 

He  ne'er  will  show  the  murder  of  the  king 

Rightly  accordant  with  the  oracle. 

For  Phoebus  said  expressly  he  should  fall 

Through  him  whom  I  brought  forth.     But  that  poor  babe 

Ne'er  slew  his  sire,  but  perished  long  before. 

Wherefore  henceforth  I  will  pursue  my  way 

Regardless  of  all  words  of  prophecy. 
(Ed.  Wisely  resolved.     But  still  send  one  to  bring 

The  laborer-swain,  and  be  not  slack  in  this. 
Jo.  I  will,  and  promptly.     Pass  we  now  within  ! 

My  whole  desire  is  but  to  work  thy  will 

Chorus. 
O  may  I  live 

Sinless  and  pure  in  every  word  and  deed 
Ordained  by  those  firm  laws,  that  hold  their  realm  on  high  ! 
Begotten  of  Heaven,  of  brightest  Ether  born, 
Created  not  of  man's  ephemeral  mould, 
They  ne'er  shall  sink  to  slumber  in  oblivion. 
A  Power  of  God  is  there,  untouched  by  Time. 

Pride  plants  the  root  from  whence  the  tyrant  grows. 

Insolent  pride,  if  idly  surfeited 

With  plenty  inordinate,  injurious  wealth, 

Mounts  to  his  pinnacle,  then  leaps  amain 

Down  a  precipitous  doom,  where  foothold  finds  he  none. 

Beneath  the  arm  of  God  I  would  shelter  me, 

And  pray  him  to  maintain  the  people's  cause. 

Yea,  all  who  strive  for  the  universal  good. 

But  if  there  be  who  walks  disdainfully, 

Reckless  in  act  or  word. 

Fearless  of  Justice  passing  without  awe 

The  abodes  of  Deity, — 

Let  evil  Destiny  take  him  for  her  own. 

And  quench  his  ill-starred  wanton  spirit,  unless 


Sophocles.  173 


He  learn  in  time  to  traffic  without  wrong, 
And  hold  his  hands  from  sacrilegious  gain ; 
Nor  in  mad  folly  grasp  at  things  forbidden. 
What  man  in  such  a  course  shall  keep  his  soul 
Unblasted  by  the  artillery  of  Heaven  ? 
Nay,  were  such  lives  continued  in  renown, 
Most  idle  were  our  service. 

Never  again 

Will  I  adore  the  holy  central  seat 

Of  Delphi,  nor  the  famed  Abaean  shrine, 

No,  nor  the  Olympian  home  of  the  Most  High, 

Unless  in  clear  fulfillment  Phoebus'  word 

Be  justified  for  every  eye  to  see. 

Zeus,  if  thy  reign  be  not  a  fable  of  men, 

If  thou  art  Lord  of  all  things,  let  thine  eye 

Behold,  let  thine  eternal  Power  o'ertake  ! 

They  set  at  naught  the  fading  oracle 

Given  long  ago  to  Laius  ;  the  renown 

Of  great  Apollo  in  every  land  grows  dim ; 

Religion  is  no  more. 

There  is,  perhaps,  hardly  any  chorus  in  ancient  Greek 
tragedy  more  celebrated  and  more  justly  celebrated  than 
the  one  immediately  foregoing.  Our  readers  will  like  to  see 
the  harmonious  prose  form  into  which  our  own  contempo- 
rary lover  and  lauder  of  the  Greek,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  has 
thrown  the  beginning  of  this  lofty  choric  strain  of  poetry 
and  ethics.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  let  Mr.  Arnold  introduce 
here  his  translation  with  the  preface  of  general  appre- 
ciation with  which  he  introduces  it  in  his  essay.  The  essay 
is  that  on  "  Pagan  and  Mediaeval  Religious  Sentiment."  He 
says : 

"  No  other  poets  [than  the  Greek]  so  well  show  to  the 
poetry  of  the  present  the  way  it  must  take ;  no  other  poets 
have  lived  so  much  by  the  imaginative  reason  ;  no  other 
poets  have  made  their  work  so  well  balanced;  no  other 
poets,  who  have  so  well  satisfied  the  thinking-power,  have 
so  well  satisfied  the  religious  sense." 


174  College  Greek  Course  in  Eiiglish. 

The  "  religious  sense "  of  Christian  readers  will  still,  we 
imagine,  crave  something,  in  order  to  its  full  satisfaction, 
even  after  the  following  truly  high  and  truly  remarkable 
utterance  of  Sophocles : 

"O  that  my  lot  may  lead  me  in  the  path  of  holy  innocence 
of  word  and  deed,  the  path  which  august  laws  ordain,  laws 
that  in  the  highest  empyrean  had  their  birth,  of  which  Heaven 
is  the  father  alone,  neither  did  the  race  of  mortal  men  beget 
them,  nor  shall  oblivion  ever  put  them  to  sleep !  The  power 
of  God  is  mighty  in  them,  and  groweth  not  old." 

"  Let  Theocritus  or  St.  Francis  beat  that,"  exclaims  Mr. 
Arnold  enthusiastically — and  therewith  closes  his  essay.  It 
is  a  burst  of  emotion  on  his  part  that  our  readers  will  be  bet- 
ter prepared  to  appreciate,  when  they  come,  later  in  this  vol- 
ume, to  read  the  extract  from  Theocritus  which  Mr.  Arnold 
adduced  for  comparison  of  pagan  religious  sentiment  with 
mediaeval  Christian. 

It  will  repay  yet  further  to  suspend  the  progress  of  our 
tragedy.  We  desire  to  set  alongside  of  Mr.  Campbell's 
metrical  translation  of  the  choric  ode  now  under  remark,  a 
parallel  translation  in  verse  by  a  different  hand.  The  fol- 
lowing fine  version  we  extract  from  Mr.  Robert  Whitelaw's 
volume  of  Sophocles  translated.  Mr.  Whitelaw  is  a  Rugby 
man,  assistant-master  of  the  school  which  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold 
made  famous.  He  has  produced  a  translation  of  Sophocles, 
which,  both  for  scholar-like  fidelity  to  the  original,  and  for 
distinctively  poetic  flavor,  we  rank  higher  than  the  admira- 
ble work  of  Mr.  Campbell.  We  were  very  evenly  balanced 
in  choosing,  for  present  use,  between  these  two  English 
forms  of  Sophocles,  both  of  them  very  recent  and  almost 
exactly  contemporaneous  with  each  other.  We  at  length 
decided  in  favor  of  Mr.  Campbell,  only  because  we  thought 
his  more  straightforward  English  constructions  would  make 
him  a  little  more  readily  intelligible  to  English-reading  stu- 
dents.     It  will  interest  some  readers  to  know  that  in  the 


Sophocles.  175 


representation  of  this  very  'tragedy,  given  with  great  success 
in  the  original  language,  about  two  years  ago,  at  Harvard 
University,  the  translation  supplied,  for  the  convenience 
of  spectators,  in  parallel  pages  with  the  Greek  text,  was  Mr. 
Campbell's.  Mr.  Campbell's  volume,  however,  since  issued, 
exhibits  many  and  important  variations  in  renderings  as 
compared  with  that  publication.  We  may  properly  add  that 
Messrs.  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  of  Boston,  issue  an  elegant  volume 
with  admirable  heliotype  illustrations,  giving  a  history  of  the 
spirited  undertaking  that,  for  the  first  time  in  America,  af- 
forded to  the  public  an  opportunity  of  seeing  a  Greek  tragedy 
presented  on  the  stage  with  approximately  the  same  effect  as 
attended  an  exhibition  in  the  great  Dionysiac  theatre  in 
ancient  Athens.  The  illustrations  are  views,  taken  by  elec- 
tric light,  of  the  stage,  much  as  it  actually  appeared,  occupied 
now  by  one  set  of  figures  and  now  by  another,  at  different 
moments  during  the  progress  of  the  representation.  Readers 
interested  in  the  subject  of  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus  would  find 
this  volume  one  exceedingly  well  worth  examining.  But  here 
is  Mr.  Whitelaw's  translation  of  the  preceding  chorus.  It  is 
versified  without  being  rhymed : 

O  may  my  constant  feet  not  fail,      [Strophe  l.J 

Walking  in  paths  of  righteousness 

Sinless  in  word  and  deed — 

True  to  those  eternal  laws 

That  scale  forever  the  high  steep 

Of  heaven's  pure  ether,  whence  they  sprang: 

For  only  in  Olympus  is  their  home. 

Nor  mortal  wisdom  gave  them  birth, 

And,  howsoe'er  men  may  forget, 

They  will  not  sleep  ; 

For  the  might  of  the  god  within  them  grows  not  old. 

Rooted  in  pride  the  tyrant  grows  ;     [Antistrophe  1.] 

But  pride  that  with  its  own  too-much 

Is  rashly  surfeited, 

Heeding  not  the  prudent  mean, 

Down  the  inevitable  gulf 


I 

176                   College  Greek  Course  in  English.  I 

From  its  high  pinnacle  is  Kurled, 

Where  use  of  feet  or  foothold  there  is  none. 

But,  O  kind  gods,  the  noble  strength, 

That  struggles  for  the  state's  behoof,  ' 

Unbend  not  yet : 

In  the  gods  have  I  put  my  trust — I  will  not  fear. 

But  whoso  walks  disdainfully,     \^Strophe  2.]  i 

In  act  or  word,  i 

And  fears  not  justice,  nor  reveres  • 

The  throned  gods,  ^ 

Him  let  misfortune  slay  j 

For  his  ill-starred  wantoning,  -i 

Should  he  heap  unrighteous  gains,  i 

Nor  from  unhallowed  paths  withhold  his  feet,  \ 

Or  reach  rash  hands  to  pluck  forbidden  fruit. 

Who  shall  do  this,  and  boast  \ 

That  yet  his  soul  is  proof  ' 

Against  the  arrows  of  offended  Heaven  ?  j 

If  honor  crown  such  deeds  as  these,  1 

Not  song,  but  silence,  then  for  me  !  \ 

To  earth's  dread  centre,  unprofaned     \Antistrophe  2.]  j 

By  mortal  touch,  ,] 

No  more  with  awe  will  I  repair,  \ 

Nor  Abac's  shrine,  { 

Nor  the  Olympian  plain,  \ 

If  the  truth  stands  not  confessed,  ' 

Pointed  at  by  all  the  world. 

O  Zeus  supreme,  if  rightly  thou  art  called —  . 

Lord  over  all — let  not  these  things  escape  i 

Thee  and  thy  timeless  sway  !  j 

For  now  men  set  at  naught  1 

Apollo's  word,  and  cry,  "  Behold,  it  fails  ! "  j 

His  praise  is  darkened  with  a  doubt ; 

And  faith  is  sapped,  and  Heaven  defied.  ' 

Jocasta,  in  her  distress  of  mind,  goes  to  worship  at  the  \ 

nearest  religious  altar.    But  a  messenger  arrives  from  Corinth  \ 

with  news  of  the  death  of  King  Polybus,  the  reputed  father  j 

of  (Edipus.     Jocasta  is  overjoyed.     She  hurries  off  an  at-  "j 
tendant  to  summon  CEdipus.      (Edipus,  hearing  the  news, 
exclaims ; 


Sophocles.  177 


Ah!  my  Jocasta,  who  again  will  heed 
The  Pythian  hearth  oracular,  and  birds 
Screaming  in  air,  blind  guides  !  that  would  have  made 
My  father's  death  my  deed  ;  but  he  is  gone, 
Hidden  underneath  the  ground,  while  I  stand  here 
Harmless  and  weaponless  : — unless,  perchance, 
My  absence  killed  him, — so  he  may  have  died 
Through  me.     But  be  that  as  it  may,  the  grave 
That  covers  Polybus  from  sight,  hath  closed 
One  voice  of  prophecy,  worth  nothing  now. 

We  are  to  imagine  the  keenly  anguished  pleasure  with 
which  Greek  spectators  would  receive  this  temporary  relief 
to  CEdipus — knowing  as  they  do  within  themselves  that  it  is 
a  mere  suspension  of  the  inevitable  catastrophe,  an  exquis- 
itely tantalizing  prolongation,  provided  for  them  by  the  poet, 
of  the  tense  emotion  proper  to  the  tragic  spectacle  of  a  man 
vainly  and  unconsciously  struggling,  or  anon  ceasing  to 
struggle,  like  a  captured  fly,  in  the  cruel  spider's  web  of  fate. 
But  CEdipus  shudders  with  a  chill  of  fear  amid  the  very  glow 
of  his  joy.  His  Corinthian  mother,  widow  of  King  Polybus, 
survives,  and  he  dreads  the  fulfillment  of  the  oracle  respect- 
ing his  crime  of  incest  with  her.  To  remove  this  fear,  the 
messenger  from  Corinth  explains  that  CEdipus  was  not  true 
son  to  Polybus  and  his  Corinthian  queen — that  he  was  to 
them  merely  an  adopted  son.  Whose  true  son,  then,  was  he  ? 
But  this  the  Corinthian  messenger  cannot  reveal.  Another 
man  must  be  called,  he  namely,  who  placed  CEdipus,  a  babe, 
in  this  informant's  hands.  But  now  let  the  dialogue  from 
Sophocles  proceed  again : 

(Ed.  Another  gave  me,  then  ?    You  did  not  find  me  ? 
Mess.  Another  herdsman  passed  thee  on  to  me. 

(Ed.  Can  you  describe  him  ?     Tell  us  what  you  know. 
Mess.  He  was  called  one  of  Laius'  people,  sure. 

(Ed.  Of  Laius  once  the  sovereign  of  this  land  ? 
Mess.  Yea,  surely,  he  was  shepherd  of  his  flock. 

(Ed.  And  is  he  still  alive  for  me  to  see  ? 
Mess,  You  Thebans  are  most  likely  to  know  that. 
8* 


178                    College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

J 

CEd.  Speak,  any  one  of  you  in  presence  here,  '\ 

Can  you  point  out  the  swain  he  tells  us  of,  \ 

In  town  or  country  having  known  of  him  ?  j 

The  time  for  this  discovery  is  full  come.  1 

Ch.  Methinks  it  is  no  other  than  the  peasant  \ 

Whom  thou  didst  seek  before  to  see  :  but  this  '' 

Could  best  be  told  by  Queen  Jocasta  there.  ; 

CEd.  We  lately  sought  that  one  should  come,  my  queen.  1 

Know'st  thou,  is  this  of  whom  he  speaks  the  same?  ■ 

yo.   What  matter  who  ?     Regard  not,  nor  desire  i 
Even  vainly  to  remember  aught  he  saith. 

(Ed.  When  I  have  found  such  tokens  of  my  birth,  \ 

I  must  disclose  it.  j 

yo.                                       As  you  love  your  life,  ■ 

By  heaven  I  beg  you,  search  no  further  here  !  i 

The  sickness  in  my  bosom  is  enough.  | 

(Ed.  Nay,  never  fear.     Were  I  proved  thrice  a  slave  \ 

And  waif  of  bondwomen,  you  still  are  noble.  1 

yo.  Yet  hearken,  I  implore  you  :  do  not  so.  ^ 

(Ed.  I  cannot  hear  you.     I  must  know  this  through.  i 

yo.  With  clear  perception  I  advise  the  best.  ' 

(Ed.  This  "best  advice"  is  ever  mine  annoy.  ; 

yo.  Wretched  one,  never  may  you  know  your  birth  I  '\ 

(Ed.  Will  some  one  go  and  fetch  the  herdman  hither?  j 

Leave  her  to  revel  in  her  lordly  line  !  | 

yo.  O  horrible  !     O  lost  one  !     This  alone  i 

I  speak  to  thee,  and  no  word  more  forever.     [Exit.'\  \ 

Ch.  CEdipus,  wherefore  is  Jocasta  gone. 

Driven  madly  by  wild  grief?     I  needs  must  fear 

Lest  from  this  silence  she  make  sorrow  spring.  . 

(Ed.  Leave  her  to  raise  what  storm  she  will.     But  I 

Will  persevere  to  know  mine  origin,  ^ 

Though  from  an  humble  seed.     Her  woman's  pride 

Is  shamed,  it  may  be,  by  my  lowliness.  \ 

But  I,  whilst  I  account  myself  the  son 

Of  prospering  Fortune,  ne'er  will  be  disgraced.  j 

For  she  is  my  true  mother :  and  the  months  \ 

Coheirs  with  me  of  the  same  father.  Time, 

Have  marked  my  lowness  and  mine  exaltation.  j 

So  born,  so  nurtured,  I  can  fear  no  change,  { 

That  I  need  shrink  to  search  this  to  the  end.  ! 


Sophocles.  179 


[CEdipus  remains,  and  gazes  toward  the  country,  while  the  chorus 
sing.] 

This  choric  song  we  omit. 

It  is  said  that,  at  the  Harvard  representation  of  the  play, 
the  excitement  of  the  spectators  during  the  foregoing  scene 
was  intense.  Jocasta — as  long  as  she  remained  apart  and 
silent  on  the  stage — standing  quite  unnoticed  by  the  king 
and  the  messenger,  went  through  a  vivid  pantomime  of  pos- 
ture and  gesture  expressive  of  the  most  passionate  horror. 

Enters  the  Theban  shepherd  expected  by  the  king.  The 
Corinthian  messenger  and  the  just-arrived  shepherd  are  mu- 
tually confronted  and  asked  to  identify  each  other.  The  old 
Theban  hesitates,  but  the  Corinthian  refreshes  his  memory. 
The  messenger  from  Corinth,  pointing  to  CEdipus,  then  says : 

Mess.  Friend,  yonder  is  the  infant  whom  we  knew. 
Theb.  Sh.  Confusion  seize  thee,  and  thy  evil  tongue  ! 

(Ed.  Check  not  his  speech,  I  pray  thee,  for  thy  words 
Call  more  than  his  for  chastisement,  old  sir. 
Theb.  Sh.  O  my  dread  lord,  wherein  do  I  offend? 

(Ed.  Thou  wilt  not  answer  him  about  the  child. 
Theb.  Sh.  He  knows  not  what  he  speaks.     His  end  is  vain, 

(Ed.  So  !  Thou'lt  not  tell  to  please  us,  but  the  lash 
Will  make  thee  tell. 
Theb.  Sh.  By  all  that's  merciful 

Scourge  not  this  aged  frame  ! 

(Ed.  Pinion  him  straight ! 

Theb.  Sh.  Unhappy  !  wherefore?  what  is't  you  would  know? 

(Ed.  Gave  you  the  child  he  asks  of  to  this  man  ? 
Theh.  Sh.  I  gave  it  him.     Would  I  had  died  that  hour  ! 

(Ed.  Speak  rightly,  or  your  wish  will  soon  come  true. 
Theb.  Sh.  My  ruin  comes  the  sooner,  if  I  speak. 

(Ed.  You  mean  to  keep  us  in  suspense,  I  see. 
Theb.  Sh.  Not  so.     I  said  long  since,  "  I  gave  the  child." 

(Ed.  Whence  ?    Was't  your  own,  or  from  another's  hand  ? 
Theb.  Sh.  'Twas  not  mine  own  ;  another  gave  it  me. 

(Ed.  What  Theban  gave  it,  from  what  home  in  Thebes? 
Theb.  Sh.  O,  I  implore  thee,  master,  ask  no  more  ! 

(Ed.  You  perish,  if  I  have  to  ask  again. 


i8o  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Theb.  Sh.  The  child  was  of  the  stock  of  Laius. 

(Ed.  Slave-born,  or  rightly  of  the  royal  line  ? 
Theb.  Sh.  Ah,  me  !     Now  comes  the  horror  to  my  tongue ! 

(Ed.  And  to  mine  ear.     But  thou  shalt  tell  it  me  ! 
Theb.  Sh.  He  was  described  as  Laius'  son  :  but  she, 

Thy  queen,  within  the  palace,  best  should  know. 
(Ed.  How  ?    Did  she  give  it  thee  ? 
Theb.  Sh.  My  lord,  she  did. 

(Ed.  With  what  commission  ? 
Theb.  Sh.  I  was  to  destroy  him. 

(Ed.  How  could  a  mother's  heart  be  steeled  to  this  ? 
Theb.  Sh.  With  fear  of  evil  prophecies. 

(Ed.  What  were  they? 

Theb.  Sh.  'Twas  said  the  child  should  be  his  father's  death. 
(Ed.  What  then  possessed  thee  to  give  up  the  child 
To  this  old  man  ? 
Theb.  Sh.  Pity,  my  sovereign  lord  ! 

Supposing  he  would  take  him  far  away 
Unto  the  land  whence  he  was  come.     But  he 
Preserved  him  to  great  sorrow.     For  if  thou 
Art  he  this  man  hath  said,  be  well  assured 
Thou  bear'st  a  heavy  doom. 
CEd.  O  horrible ! 

Horrible  !     All  is  known,  as  sunlight  clear  ! 
O  may  I  nevermore  behold  the  day, 
Since  proved  accursed  in  my  parentage, 
In  those  I  live  with,  and  in  him  I  slew  ! 

The  solemn  chorus  of  Theban  elders  take  up  now  their 
music,  and  chant,  in  mournful  recitative,  the  lesson  of  what 
they  have  seen,  as  follows  : 

Chorus. 

O  tribes  of  living  men. 
How  nothing-worth  I  count  you  while  ye  stand  ! 

For  who  of  all  the  train 
Draws  more  of  happiness  into  his  hand 
Than  to  seem  bright,  and,  seeming,  fade  in  glcx)m? 
O,  CEdipus,  by  thine  all-hapless  doom 

Too  clearly  'tis  expressed 

Naught  in  mortality  is  blest. 


Sophocles.  i8i 


Thou  that  surpassing  all  in  skill  ,^ 

With  perfect  aim  didst  kill  j 

The  crook-clawed  minstrel,  as  a  tower  - 

Saving  my  land  from  death's  dark  power,  i 

And  winning  for  thyself  the  name  \ 

Of  Thebe's  king,  and  noblest  fame,  : 
Thou,  thou,  art  fallen  at  last 

To  misery  unsurpassed.  ; 

Who,  in  life's  dark  reverse,  \ 

Like  thee  hath  felt  the  curse  < 

Of  destiny,  the  assault  of  boundless  pain  ?  , 

O  CEdipus  renowned,  j 

Who  in  one  haven  found  \ 

Harbor  for  son  and  sire  , 

When  led  with  nuptial  fire  !  \ 

Ah  !  how  could'st  thou  so  long  remain 

The  furrower  of  thy  father's  field. 

Borne  patiently  and  unrevealed  ? 

Crimes  from  thyself  concealed 

All-searching  time  hath  opened  to  the  day,  ' 

And  shown  thee  with  clear  ray,  j 

Long  while,  in  hideous  bond,  spouse,  father,  child.  j 
O  Laius'  fatal  son, 
Would  I  had  ne'er  thee  known  ! 

My  heart  cries  loud  for  thee  ' 

In  tones  of  agony,  ' 

And  frenzied  exclamation  wild.  ) 

For,  to  speak  sooth,  thou  didst  restore  my  life,  i 

And  gav'st  my  soul  sweet  respite  after  strife. 

Something  meantime — that  is,  during  the  choric  chant — has  \ 

been    passing    behind    the    scenes.      A    second   messenger  j 

comes  forward  to  announce  the  suicide  of  the  queen.     (Edi-  s 

pus  himself,  raging  through  the  palace,  found  her  hanging  j 

by  the  neck  apparently  already  dead.     He  undid  the  noose,  j 

but  from  this  point  let  Sophocles,  through  the  messenger,  \ 

tell  the  tale  :  \ 

'Twas  terrible  ^ 

To  see  what  followed — for  he  tore  away 

The  brooch-pins  that  had  fastened  her  attire,  i 

And,  lifting,  smote  his  eyeballs  to  the  root,  ,        a 


1 82                    College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

. . i 

Saying,  Henceforth  they  should  not  see  the  evil  ] 
Suffered  or  done  by  him  in  the  past  time, 

But  evermore  in  darkness  now  should  scan  ' 

The  features  he  ought  never  to  have  seen,  t: 

And  not  discern  the  souls  he  longed  to  know.  ! 
Thus  crying  aloud,  not  once  but  oftentimes 

He  dashed  the  points  into  his  eyes  ;  and  soon  j 

The  bleeding  pupils  moistened  all  his  beard,  , 

Nor  stinted  the  dark  flood,  but  all  at  once  i 

The  ruddy  hail  poured  down  in  plenteous  shower.  ] 

Thus  from  two  springs,  from  man  and  wife  together,  i 

Burst  the  joint  evil  that  is  now  o'erflowing.  j 

And  the  old  happiness  in  that  past  day  j 

Was  truly  happy,  but  the  present  hour  * 

Hath  groaning,  death,  disaster,  shame,  all  ill  ] 

Without  exemption,  that  hath  e'er  been  named.  j 

"  A  hateful  sight,  yet  one  thou    needs  must  pity,"  is  the  j 
form   of  announcement   with  which  the  second  messenger, 

having  closed  his   story,    ushers  now  the  blinded  CEdipus  | 
upon  the  stage.     The  chorus  exclaim  at  sight  of  him,  with 

mingled  pity  and  horror.     OEdipus  himself  bursts  out :  [we  ] 

use  for  this  next  extract  the  extraordinarily  fine  rendering  of  ] 
Mr.  Whitelaw :] 

O  thou  thick  cloud  of  darkness, 

That  on  my  life  hast  settled,  j 

Abominable,  unutterable,  | 

Indomitable,  j 

By  pitiless  winds  swept  hitherward  on  me ;  j 

Alas !  j 

And  yet  again,  alas,  and  woe  is  me  !  i 

Such  maddening  pain  j 

Of  those  sharp  daggers  at  my  eyes,                                     "  j 
Blent  w^ith  remembrance  of  my  misery, 

Pierces  my  inmost  soul.  * 

i 

The   chorus    reply  with  non-committal  sympathy:   [Mr.  j 

Whitelaw  for  translator  this  once  again  :]  \ 

No  marvel  if,  in  such  extremity,  ; 
Thy  grief  is  twofold,  as  thy  suffering  is. 

i 
1 


Sophocles.  183 


CEdipus,  nevertheless,  is  touched  with  even  such  a  token  of 
kindness,  and  answers  gratefully.  To  the  inquiry  what  power 
impelled  him  to  put  out  his  own  eyes,  "Apollo,  O  my  friends, 
Apollo,"  is  his  answer.  It  is  but  lukewarm  friendliness  that 
the  chorus  show  the  king,  in  the  dialogue  which  follows. 
Poor  CEdipus,  however,  in  his  low  estate  is  fain  to  be  thank- 
ful for  scant  measure  of  human  sympathy  now. 

The  crisis  of  the  tragic  interest  past,  it  is,  henceforward 
to  the  close  of  the  poem,  the  poet's  problem  to  let  down  the 
high-wrought  emotions  of  the  spectators,  by  smooth  and 
easy  cadence,  to  a  calm  mood  of  suitable  ethic  or  religious 
awe.  With  what  skill  the  tension  is  gradually  relaxed  !  It 
would  have  been  bad  art  in  Sophocles,  either  to  close  at 
the  climax,  or  to  permit  a  sudden  violent  descent. 

The  just  limits  of  our  space  forbid  us  to  display  all  this 
at  full.  We  plunge  into  the  prolonged  lamentations  of  CEdi- 
pus, at  the  point  where  he  refers  to  his  children  : 

Thou,  Creon,  shalt  provide.     As  for  my  sons, 
I  pray  thee  burden  not  thyself  with  them. 
They  ne'er  will  lack  subsistence — they  are  men. 
But  ray  poor  maidens,  hapless  and  forlorn, 
Who  never  had  a  meal  apart  from  mine. 
But  ever  shared  my  table,  yea,  for  them 
Take  heedful  care  ;  and  grant  me,  though  but  once, 
Yea,  I  beseech  thee,  with  these  hands  to  feel, 
Thou  noble  heart !  the  forms  I  love  so  well, 
And  weep  with  them  our  common  misery. 
O,  if  my  arms  were  round  them,  I  might  seem 
To  have  them  as  of  old  when  I  could  see. — 
What  ?  Am  I  fooled  once  more,  or  do  I  hear 
My  dear  ones  weeping?     And  hath  Creon  sent, 
Pitying  my  sorrows,  mine  own  children  to  me 
Whom  most  I  love?     Can  this  be  truth  I  utter? 
Creon.  Yea,  I  have  done  it.     For  I  knew  the  joy 
Thou  ever  hadst  in  this,  thy  comfort  now. 
CEd.  Fair  be  thy  fortune,  and,  for  this  last  deed, 
May  Heaven  protect  thee  better  far  than  me  ! 


184  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Where  are  ye,  O  my  children  ?     Come,  draw  near 

To  these  my  hands  of  brother  blood  with  you. 

Hands  that  have  made  so  piteous  to  your  sight 

The  spectacle  of  his  once  brilliant  eyes, 

Who  all  in  blindness,  with  no  thought  of  ill, 

Became  your  father  at  that  fount  of  life. 

Where  he  himself  had  being  !    O  !  for  you 

I  weep,  not  seeing  you,  when  I  take  thought 

Of  all  the  bitter  passages  of  fate 

That  must  attend  you  among  men.     For  where 

Can  ye  find  fellowship,  what  civic  throng 

Shall  ye  resort  unto,  what  festival. 

From  whence,  instead  of  sights  or  sounds  enjoyed, 

Ye  will  not  come  in  tears  unto  your  home  ? 

And  when  ye  reach  the  marriageable  bloom, 

My  daughters,  who  will  be  the  man  to  cast 

His  lot  with  the  unfortunate,  and  take 

All  those  reproaches  on  his  name,  which  press 

So  sorely  on  my  parents  and  on  you  ? 

And  who  will  marry  you  ?     No  man,  my  daughters  ; 
But  ye  must  wither,  childless  and  unwed. 

But  look  with  pity  upon  their  youth,  thus  left 
Forlorn  of  all  protection  save  from  thee. 
Noble  one,  seal  this  promise  with  thy  hand  ! 
For  you,  my  children,  were  ye  of  an  age 
To  ponder  speech,  I  would  have  counseled  you 
Full  carefully.     Now  I  would  have  you  pray 
To  dwell  where  'tis  convenient,  that  your  life 
May  find  more  blessing  than  your  father  knew. 
Cr.  Thou  hast  had  enough  of  weeping.     Close  thee  in  thy 
chamber  walls. 
CEd.  I  must  yield,  though  sore  against  me, 

Cr.  Yea,  for  strong  occasion  calls. 

(Ed.  Know'st  thou  on  what  terms  I  yield  it  ? 

Cr.  Tell  me,  let  us  hear  and  know. 

CEd.  That  ye  send  me  from  the  country. 

Cr.  God  alone  can  let  thee  go. 

CEd.  But  the  gods  long  since  abhor  me. 

Cr.  Thou  wilt  sooner  gain  that  boon. 

(Ed.  Then  consent. 


Sophocles.  185 


Cr,  Tis  not  my  wont  to  venture  promises  too  soon. 
(Ed.  Lead  me  now  within  the  palace. 

Cr.  Come,  but  leave  thy  children. 

(Ed.  Nay  ! 

Tear  not  these  from  my  embraces  ! 
Cr.  Think  not  all  things  to  command. 

Of  the  good  thou  hadst  beforetime  much  hath  fleeted  from 
thy  hand. 

Chorus. 

Dwellers  in  our  native  Thebe,  fix  on  CEdipus  your  eyes, 
Who  resolved  the  dark  enigma,  noblest  champion  and  most  wise. 
Glorious,  like  a  sun  he  mounted,  envied  of  the  popular  throng  ; 
Now  he  sinks  in  seas  of  anguish,  plunged  the  lashing  waves  among. 
Therefore,  with  the  old-world  sages,  waiting  for  the  final  day, 
I  will  call  no  mortal  happy,  while  he  holds  his  house  of  clay. 
Till  without  one  pang  of  sorrow,  all  his  hours  have  passed  away. 

Our  readers  will  recognize  in  this  "  conclusion  of  the  v^^hole 
matter,"  delivered  by  the  chorus,  the  sentiment  and  wisdom 
of  Solon  to  Croesus.  Compare  and  contrast  the  last  chorus 
of  Milton's  Samson  Agonistes :  (here  given  in  part :) 

"  All  is  best,  though  we  oft  doubt 

What  the  unsearchable  dispose 
Of  Highest  Wisdom  brings  about, 

And  ever  best  found  in  the  close. 

His  servants  he,  with  new  acquist 

Of  true  experience,  from  this  great  event, 

With  peace  and  consolation  hath  dismiss'd. 
And  calm  of  mind,  all  passion  spent." 

The  closing  lines  may  be  regarded  as  a  kind  of  interpreta- 
tion and  application  from  Milton  of  Aristotle's  definition  of 
tragedy  quoted  in  a  foregoing  page.  (We  would  strongly 
recommend  to  readers  that  can  command  the  leisure  for  it, 
to  give  the  specimens  here  presented  of  Greek  tragedy  as 
many  as  three  separate  perusals.  The  third  perusal  will  be 
found  the  most  enjoyable  and  the  most  profitable  of  all.) 
We  reluctantly  now  let  go  the  fairest,  most  fortunate,  most 


1 86                   College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

ideal  figure  of  poet  that  Greek  literary  history  has  to  show. 
But  he  shall  sing  us  a  nightingale  song  of  nightingales  as  he  \ 
goes.     The  following  lovely  choric  ode,  given  only  in  part,  ! 
we  take  from  the  CEdipus  at  Colonus,  a  tragedy  of  Sophocles 
written  in  sequel  and  supplement  to  the  great  play  just  pre- 
sented.    Let  readers  remember  that  Colonus  was  the  birth- 
place of  Sophocles.     We  use   here  once  more,  in  a  very  fine  j 
specimen  of  its  rare  workmanship  and  its  congenial  sympathy  | 
with  poetry,  the  translation  of  Mr.  Whitelaw : 

To  the  land  of  the  steed,  O  stranger. 

To  the  goodliest  homes  upon  earth  thou  comest —  \ 

White-cliffed  Colonus,  this,  '\ 

Loud  with  the  melody  piercing  sweet  i 

Of  nightingales  that  most  delight  | 

Its  deep  green  glades  to  haunt — 

Lovers  of  the  ivy  sheen  j 

And  the  myriad-berried  thick-leaved  bower 

Of  the  grove  of  the  god,  no  foot  profanes,  < 

Sunproof,  nor  vexed  by  wind,  ; 

"Whatever  storms  may  blow  ;  i 

Where  Dionysus,  wandering  still,  enrapt,  \ 

Waits  on  the  heavenly  maids,  his  nurses  once,  ; 

And  the  clustering  fair  narcissus  \ 

Eve  by  eve  out  of  heaven  the  fresh  dew  drinketh—  \ 

Meet  for  the  mighty  brows,  ' 

Erst  at  Eleusis  its  florets  graced — 

And  bright  the  crocus  springs  like  gold  :  \ 

Nor  fail  the  sleepless  founts. 

Whence,  Cephisus,  thy  streams  are  fed  ;  j 

But  they  flow,  and  the  quick-conceiving  plains  I 

Of  the  bountiful-bosomed  earth  are  glad,  1 

Undwindling,  day  by  day, 

Of  thine  untainted  shower : 

Nor  hath  such  haunt  displeased  the  Muses'  choir  ; 

Nor  Aphrodite  of  the  golden  rein.  j 

No  appreciative   reader  will  feel  it  to  be  surprising  that  \ 

dotage  should   have  been  effectually  refuted  for  Sophocles,  \ 

by  his  opportune  recitation  of  this  ode  in  praise  of  Colonus,  i 


Sophocles. 


187 


the  flowering — if  but  the  critics  will  let  us  credit  the  story 
— of  an  old  age  in  the  writer,  that  kept  all  the  freshness, 
having  parted  with  all  the  crudeness,  of  youth.  Farewell  to 
thee,  poet,  thus  unalterably  young  at  ninety!  Whatever 
lay  in  the  power  of  happy  condition  to  do  for  mortal— that 
mortal  yet  remaining  contentedly  pagan — all  this  assuredly 
happy  condition  did,  and  abundantly  did,  for  Sophocles. 


VII. 

EU  RI  PI  DES. 

The  third  member  of  the  great  tragical  triumvirate  of 
Greece  was  Euripides.  The  great 
tragical  triumvirate,  we  say — but  it 
ought  not  to  be  forgotten  that,  be- 
sides ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and  Eu- 
ripides, who  alone  survive  to  us  in 
their  productions,  there  flourished  in 
Athens,  at  the  same  time  with  these, 
other  tragedians  scarcely  inferior  to 
them  in  contemporary  fame.  Aga- 
thon,  of  whom  readers  of  this  volume 
will  remember  seeing  mention  made 
in  the  course  of  our  presentation  of 
Plato,  is  an  example  of  those  illus- 
trious tragic  poets  of  Greece  whose 
works  have  utterly  perished. 

Euripides  was  born,  an  Athenian,  (480  B.  C.,)  in  the  year, 
perhaps  on  the  day,  of  the  battle  of  Salamis.  He  had  a  long 
career;  but,  though  born  some  years  after,  he  died  a  few 
months  before,  his  generous,  more  prosperous,  but  not  more 
popular,  rival— Sophocles.     It  was  one  of  those  graceful  acts 


EURIPIDES. 


1 88  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

which  so  well  became  the  genius  and  the  character  of  the 
latter,  that  he  signalized  his  sorrow  over  the  death  of  his 
peer,  by  causing  the  actors  in  his  own  next  play  to  appear 
in  mourning  for  the  loss  of  Euripides.  Aristophanes,  on  the 
contrary,  persecuted  Euripides  even  in  his  grave.  The  clos- 
ing days  of  this  third  great  tragedian  of  Greece  were  spent  at 
the  court  of  the  king  of  Macedonia. 

Euripides  seems  not  as  yet  to  have  attracted  any  trans- 
lators capable  of  giving  him  entirely  satisfactory  form  in 
English  verse.  A  reasonably  good  metrical  translation  has, 
however,  been  executed  by  Mr.  R.  Potter,  There  is,  be- 
sides, a  strictly  literal,  not  very  living,  version  in  prose  from 
the  hand  of  Mr.  T.  A.  Buckley,  an  Oxford  scholar.  Mr. 
Plumptre,  who  has  admirably  versified  ^schylus  and  Soph- 
ocles, has  not,  up  to  the  present  time,  extended  his  labors  to 
Euripides.  Of  one  play  however  of  Euripides,  we  are  fort- 
unate in  possessing  a  version  from  no  less  a  master  than 
Mr.  Robert  Browning.  It  happily  chances,  too,  that  this 
play  is  precisely  the  one  which,  of  all  the  extant  works  of 
Euripides,  we  should  in  any  case  have  selected  for  presenta- 
tion to  our  readers.  It  is  the  Alcestis.  (The  Raging  Her- 
cules may  also  be  read  in  a  version  by  Mr.  Browning.  This  is 
given  in  a  poem  of  his  entitled  "Aristophanes'  Apology.") 

Mr.  Browning's  Alcestis  must  be  looked  for  under  the  title 
of  "Balaustion's  Adventure."  Balaustion  (wild  pomegranate 
flower)  is  the  pet  name,  invented  by  Mr.  Browning,  of  a 
Greek  girl,  also  invented  by  Mr.  Browning,  who,  at  the  time 
of  the  Sicilian  Expedition,  escaped  from  the  island  of  Rhodes 
(on  the  point  then  of  revolting  from  Athens  to  Sparta)  and 
fled  in  a  small  vessel — she  and  with  her  a  number  of  like- 
minded  companions  bent  on  making  their  way  to  the  Peirae- 
us.  They  were  pursued  by  pirates,  and,  mistaking  Sicily 
for  Crete,  rowed  hard  to  land  near  Syracuse,  where,  detected 
as  Athenian  in  sympathy  by  a  song  with  which  they  had 
cheered  themselves  in  rowing,  they  were  met  with  a  repulse, 


Euripides.  189 


which,  however,  changed  to  a  welcome  when  it  was  found 
out  that  Balaustion  could  recite  a  play  of  Euripides.  The 
Alcestis  was  the  play.  Such  is  the  plot  of  Mr.  Browning's 
poem.  The  plot  has  a  foundation  in  fact,  or,  at  least,  in 
tradition.  It  is  said  that  Athenian  captives  in  Syracuse  that 
knew  snatches  of  Euripides  could  earn  for  themselves  sub- 
stantial advantages  by  reciting  these  for  the  gratification  of 
their  kindred  Greek-speaking  masters. 

The  story  of  the  Alcestis  of  Euripides  is  very  simple. 
Alcestis  was  wife  and  queen  to  Admetus,  king  of  Pherae,  in 
Thessaly.  Admetus  was,  by  grace  from  Apollo,  granted  the 
privilege  of  not  dying,  on  condition  of  his  being  able  to  find 
some  one  who  would  agree  to  die  in  his  stead  when  his  turn 
should  come.  Alcestis  became  the  required  substitute  and 
died,  but  was  brought  back  to  life  by  Heracles,  and  restored 
to  her  husband. 

The  play  opens  with  a  prologue  from  Apollo,  who,  after 
explaining  the  situation  for  the  enlightenment  of  spectators, 
(compare  the  prologue  to  Milton's  Mask  of  Comus,)  has  a 
fruitless  colloquy  with  Death,  come  now  for  his  prey,  Al- 
cestis having  reached  the  day  of  her  doom.  With  this 
colloquy  we  begin  our  citations  from  the  play.  A  curious 
passage  it  is.  Some  critics  pronounce  it  very  fine,  and  some 
critics  pronounce  it  very  foolish.  Our  readers  shall  form 
their  own  judgment  without  bias  communicated  from  the 
present  author. 

Jealous  Death  suspects  Apollo  of  intention  to  interfere  a 
second  time  with  his  rights.  Apollo  says  he  has  no  idea  of 
using  with  Death  any  plea  but  justice.  Whereupon  Death 
significantly  slanting  at  Apollo's  customary  weapon : 

Death.  What  need  of  bow,  were  justice  arms  enough  ? 
Apollo.  Ever  it  is  my  wont  to  bear  the  bow. 

De,  Ay,  and  with  bow,  not  justice,  help  this  house. 

Ap.  I  help  it,  since  a  friend's  woe  weighs  me,  too. 

De.  And  now  wilt  force  from  me  this  second  corpse  ? 


i9o  College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

Ap.  By  force  I  took  no  corpse  at  first  from  thee.  ! 

De.  How,  then,  is  he  above  ground — not  beneath? 

Ap.  He  gave  his  wife,  instead  of  him,  thy  prey. 

De.  And  prey,  this  time  at  least,  I  bear  below  !  r 

Ap.  Go,  take  her  !  for  I  doubt  persuading  thee — 

De.  To  kill  the  doomed  one?     What  my  function  else? 

Ap.  No  !     Rather  to  despatch  the  true  mature.  . 

De.  Truly  I  take  thy  meaning — see  thy  drift ! 

Ap.  Is  there  a  way,  then,  she  may  reach  old  age  ? 

De.  No  way  !     I  glad  me  in  my  honors,  too  ! 

Ap.  But,  young  or  old,  thou  tak'st  one  life — no  more  !  \ 

De.  Younger  they  die,  greater  my  praise  redounds  ! 

Ap.  If  she  die  old — the  sumptuous  funeral !  1 

De.  Thou  layest  down  a  law  the  rich  would  like  I  '-■ 

Ap.  How  so  ?     Did  wit  lurk  there  and  'scape  thy  sense  ?  1 

De.  Who  could  buy  substitutes  would  die  old  men. 

Ap.  It  seems  thou  wilt  not  grant  me,  then,  this  grace  ? 

De.  This  grace  I  will  not  grant ;  thou  know'st  my  ways !  , 

Ap.  Ways  harsh  to  men,  hateful  to  gods,  at  least ! 

De.  All  things  thou  canst  not  have  :  my  rights  for  me !  ; 


■  Apollo  retorts  with  a  vague  prophecy  that  Heracles  will 
soon  be  at  hand  to  rob  Death  after  all  of  his  prey.  Death 
rejoins  once  again  with  a  savage  show  of  his  grinning  teeth, 
as  Apollo  withdraws.  Apollo  gone,  a  chorus  of  sympathizers 
assemble  at  the  palace  door,  to  learn  about  the  progress  of 
events  within.  Knowing  what  impends,  they  inquire,  draw 
inferences,  and  bewail,  by  turns.  Is  Alcestis  dead?  But  there 
is  no  sound  of  lamenting  to  be  heard.  Can  the  corpse  have 
been  already  carried  forth  ?  No  signs  appear  that  this  has 
happened. 

Presently  the  full  chorus  join  in  symphony  accentuated, 
we  are  to  suppose,  with  rhythmic  movement  in  dance.  We 
omit  this  passage.  A  palace-maid  comes  out,  who  describes 
to  the  chorus  the  beautiful  behavior  of  Alcestis  about  to  die, 
as  follows : 

Hear  what  she  did  indoors,  and  wonder  then  ! 
For,  when  she  felt  the  crowning  day  was  come, 


Euripides,  191 


She  washed  with  river  waters  her  white  skin, 
And,  taking  from  the  cedar  closets  forth 
Vesture  and  ornament,  bedecked  herself 
Nobly,  and  stood  before  the  hearth,  and  prayed  : 
"  Mistress,  because  I  now  depart  the  world, 
Falling  before  thee  the  last  time,  I  ask — 
Be  mother  to  my  orphans  !  wed  the  one 
To  a  kind  wife,  and  make  the  other's  mate 
Some  princely  person  :  nor,  as  I  who  bore 
My  children  perish,  suffer  that  they,  too, 
Die  all  untimely,  but  live,  happy  pair, 
Their  full  glad  life  out  in  the  fatherland  ?" 
And  every  altar  through  Admetos'  house 
She  visited  and  crowned  and  prayed  before, 
Stripping  the  myrtle-foliage  from  the  boughs 
Without  a  tear,  without  a  groan — no  change 
At  all  to  that  skin's  nature,  fair  to  see. 
Caused  by  the  imminent  evil.     But  this  done. 
Reaching  her  chamber,  falling  on  her  bed, 
There,  truly,  burst  she  into  tears,  and  spoke : 

But,  when  of  many  tears  she  had  her  fill. 
She  flings  from  off  the  couch,  goes  headlong  forth, 
Yet — forth  the  chamber — still  keeps  turning  back, 
And  casts  her  on  the  couch  again  once  more. 
Her  children,  clinging  to  their  mother's  robe. 
Wept  meanwhile  :  but  she  took  them  in  her  arms. 
And,  as  a  dying  woman  might,  embraced 
Now  one  and  now  the  other :  'neath  the  roof, 
All  of  the  household  servants  wept  as  well, 
Moved  to  compassion  for  their  mistress  ;  she 
Extended  her  right  hand  to  all  and  each, 
And  there  was  no  one  of  such  low  degree 
She  spoke  not  to  nor  had  an  answer  from. 
Such  are  the  evils  in  Admetos'  house. 
Dying — why,  he  had  died ;  but,  living,  gains 
Such  grief  as  this  he  never  will  forget ! 

There  is  more  description  from  the  palace  attendant  of 
what  was  passing  within,  accompanied  or  interchanged  with 
more  choral  lamentation.     Mr.  Browning,  while  a  sad  pro- 


192^  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

cession  issues  from  the  palace,  avails  himself  of  the  occasion 
to  introduce  a  considerable  passage  of  interpretation  and  in- 
terpolation highly  characteristic  of  his  very  peculiar  genius. 
This  we  omit  of  course — not  because  it  is  devoid  of  interest, 
but  for  the  twofold  reason  that  it  would  be  somewhat  obscure 
to  those  not  already  versed  in  Browning,  and  that  it  does  not 
belong  to  Euripides.  Now  appears  dying  Alcestis  with  her 
husband,  her  son,  and  the  chorus.  Poor  Alcestis,  with  that 
Greek  love  of  light,  will  see  the  sun  once  more.  The  dia- 
logue that  ensues,  if  dialogue  it  should  be  called,  say,  rather, 
the  monologue-apostrophe  of  Alcestis  interrupted  by  ex- 
clamations from  Admetus  that  she,  in  her  rapt  state,  at  first 
does  not  heed — this  passage,  whatever  it  is  to  be  styled,  de- 
serves to  be  given.  Mr.  Browning  at  this  point  breaks  in  so 
much  with  matter  not  of  Euripides  that  we  forsake  him  for 
the  moment  to  take  up  here  the  version  of  Mr.  Potter: 

Alcestis.  Thou  sun,  and  thou  fair  light  of  day  !  ye  clouds 

That  in  quick  eddies  whirl  along  the  sky  ! 
Admetus.  Sees  thee  and  me  most  wretched,  yet  in  naught 

Offending  'gainst  the  gods  that  thou  shouldst  die. 
Ale.  O  earth,  ye  tower'd  roofs,  thou  bridal  bed, 

Raised  in  lolcos,  my  paternal  seat ! 
Adm.  O  thou  poor  sufferer,  raise  thee,  leave  me  not ; 

Intreat  the  powerful  gods  to  pity  thee. 
Ale.  I  see  the  two-oar'd  boat,  the  Stygian  barge  ; 

And  he  that  wafts  the  dead  grasps  in  his  hand 

His  pole,  and  calls  me  :  "  Why  dost  thou  delay? 

Haste  thee  ;  thou  lingerest ;  all  is  ready  here  !  ** 

Charon,  impatient,  speeds  me  to  be  gone. 
Adm.  J\.  melancholy  voyage  this  to  me. 

O  thou  unhappy,  what  a  fate  is  ours ! 
Ale.  He  drags  me,  some  one  drags  me  to  the  gates 

That  close  upon  the  dead  ;  dost  thou  not  see 

How  stem  he  frowns  beneath  his  gloomy  brows, 

The  impetuous  Pluto  ?    What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Off,  let  me  go.     Ah,  what  a  dreary  path, 

Wretched,  most  wretched,  must  I  downward  tread  ! 


Euripides.  193 


Adm.  To  thy  friends  mournful,  most  to  me,  and  these 
Thy  children,  who  with  me  this  sorrow  share. 
Ale.  No  longer  hold  me  up,  hold  me  no  longer  ; 

Here  lay  me  down :   I  have  not  strength  to  stand ; 
Death  is  hard  by  :  dark  night  creeps  o'er  my  eyes. 
My  children,  O,  my  children,  now  no  more, 
Your  mother  is  no  more  :  farewell ;  may  you, 
More  happy,  see  the  golden  light  of  heaven  ! 

Adm.  Ah,  what  a  mournful  word  is  this  !  to  me 

Than  any  death  more  painful :  by  the  gods 
Forsake  me  not ;  shouldst  thou  be  taken  from  me, 
I  were  no  more  ;  in  thee  I  live  ;  thy  love, 
Thy  sweet  society,  my  soul  reveres. 

We  may  now  return  to  Mr.  Browning  for  the  speech  in 
which  Alcestis,  becoming  conscious  once  more  of  Admetus, 
adjures  him  to  be  true  to  her  own  memory,  and,  for  their 
joint  sake,  to  their  children : 

Alkestis.  Admetos,  how  things  go  wilh  me  thou  seest, 
I  wish  to  tell  thee,  ere  I  die,  what  things 
I  will  should  follow.     I — to  honor  thee, 
Secure  for  thee,  by  my  own  soul's  exchange, 
Continued  looking  on  the  daylight  here — 
Die  for  thee — ^yet,  if  so  I  pleased,  might  live. 

Do  me  in  turn  a  favor — favor,  since 
Certainly  I  shall  never  claim  my  due, 
For  nothing  is  more  precious  than  a  life  : 
But  a  fit  favor,  as  thyself  wilt  say, 
Loving  our  children  here  no  less  than  T, 
If  head  and  heart  be  sound  in  thee  at  least. 
Uphold  them,  make  them  masters  of  my  house. 
Nor  wed  and  give  a  step-dame  to  the  pair, 
Who,  being  a  worse  wife  than  I,  through  spite 
Will  raise  her  hand  against  both  thine  and  mine  ; 
Never  do  this  at  least,  I  pray  to  thee  ! 

Farewell,  be  happy !    And  to  thee,  indeed. 
Husband,  the  boast  remains  permissible. 
Thou  hadst  a  wife  was  worthy !  and  to  you 
Children,  as  good  a  mother  gave  you  birth. 


194  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

The  chorus  cheerfully  undertake  for  Admetus  that  he  will 
perform  his  wife's  wishes.  Admetus  also  answers  up  for 
himself.  He  mixes,  it  will  be  seen,  a  bitter  dash  of  the 
unfilial  with  the  overflowing  sweet  of  his  conjugal : 

Admetos.  Fear  not,  and,  since  I  had  thee  living,  dead 
Alone  wilt  thou  be  called  my  wife :  no  fear 
That  some  Thessalian  ever  styles  herself 
Bride,  hails  this  man  for  husband  in  thy  place  ! 

And  I  shall  bear  for  thee  no  year-long  grief, 
But  grief  that  lasts  while  my  own  days  last,  love — 
Love,  for  my  hate  is  she  who  bore  me,  now, 
And  him  I  hate,  my  father  :  loving  ones, 
Truly,  in  word,  not  deed  !     But  thou  didst  pay 
All  dearest  to  thee  down,  and  buy  my  life, 
Saving  me  so  !     Is  there  not  cause  enough 
That  I,  who  part  with  such  companionship 
In  thee,  should  make  my  moan  ? 

But  were  the  tongue  and  tune  of  Orpheus  mine. 

So  that  to  Kore  crying,  or  her  lord. 

In  hymns,  from  Hades  I  might  rescue  thee, 

Down  would  I  go,  and  neither  Plouton's  dog 

Nor  Charon,  he  whose  oar  sends  souls  across, 

Should  stay  me  till  again  I  made  thee  stand 

Living,  within  the  light !     But,  failing  this. 

There,  where  thou  art,  await  me  when  I  die. 

Make  ready  our  abode,  my  house-mate  still ! 

For  in  the  self-same  cedar,  me  with  thee. 

Will  I  provide  that  these  our  friends  shall  place. 

My  side  lay  close  by  thy  side  !     Never,  corpse 

Although  I  be,  would  I  division  bear 

From  thee,  my  faithful  one  of  all  the  world  ! 

Mr.  Browning  makes  Balaustion,  at  the  conclusion  of  this 
effusive  speech  from  Admetus,  interrupt  the  progress  of  the 
play  with  reflections  of  her  own.  These  are  so  good  and  so 
pertinent  that  we  transfer  them — within  quotation-marks  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  text  of  the  original — to  our  pages. 
They  seem  a  necessary  expression  of  thought  forced  upon 


Euripides.  195 


the  modern  mind  by  the  part  which  Euripides  makes  Ad- 
metus  play  in  this  singular  tragedy — tragedy  so  singular  that 
the  author  might  almost  have  done  well  to  imitate  (by  antic- 
ipation) the  modesty  of  Tennyson  in  naming  his  "Princess," 
and  style  his  play  "Medley"  instead  of  "Tragedy."  Mr. 
Browning's  Balaustion  says  (Moirai  is  the  Greek  form  for 
Fates — Mr.  Browning  scrupulously  spells  Greek  fashion  every- 


where): 


"So  he  stood  sobbing  :  nowise  insincere, 

But  somehow  child-like,  like  his  childiren. 

Like  childishness  the  world  over.     What  was  new 

In  this  announcement  that  his  wife  must  die  ? 

What  particle  of  pain  beyond  the  pact 

He  made,  with  eyes  wide  open,  long  ago — 

Made,  and  was,  if  not  glad,  content  to  make  ? 

Now  that  the  sorrow  he  had  called  for  came, 

He  sorrowed  to  the  height :  none  heard  him  say. 

However,  what  would  seem  so  pertinent, 

'  To  keep  this  pact,  I  find  surpass  my  power : 

Rescind  it,  Moirai !     Give  me  back  her  life, 

And  take  the  life  I  kept  by  base  exchange  ! 

Or,  failing  that,  here  stands  your  laughing-stock 

Fooled  by  you,  worthy  just  the  fate  o'  the  fool 

Who  makes  a  pother  to  escape  the  best 

And  gain  the  worst  you  wiser  powers  allot ! ' 

No,  not  one  word  of  this  :  nor  did  his  wife. 

Despite  the  sobbing,  and  the  silence  soon 

To  follow,  judge  so  much  was  in  his  thought — 

Fancy  that,  should  Moirai  acquiesce. 

He  would  relinquish  life,  nor  let  her  die. 

The  man  was  like  some  merchant  who,  in  storm, 

Throws  the  freight  over  to  redeem  the  ship: 

No  question,  saving  both  were  better  still. 

As  it  was — why,  he  sorrowed,  which  sufficed. 

So,  all  she  seemed  to  notice  in  his  speech 

Was  what  concerned  her  children. 

So,  bending  to  her  children  all  her  love, 
She  fastened  on  their  father's  only  word 
To  purpose  now,  and  followed  it  with  this: 


196  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

[We  return  to  Euripides  for  the  exchange  of  parting  words 
that  ensues  :] 

Alkestis.  O,  children  !  now  yourselves  have  heard  these  things— 
Your  father  saying  he  will  never  wed 
Another  woman  to  be  over  you, 
Nor  yet  dishonor  me  ! 
,  Admetos.  And  now  at  least 

I  say  it,  and  I  will  accomplish  too  ! 
A  Ik.  Then,  for  such  promise  of  accomplishment. 

Take  from  my  hand  these  children  ! 
Adm.  Thus  I  take- 

Dear  gift  from  the  dear  hand  ! 
A  Ik.  Do  thou  become 

Mother,  now,  to  these  children  in  my  place  ! 
Adm.  Great  the  necessity  I  should  be  so, 
At  least  to  these  bereaved  of  thee  ! 
A  Ik.  Child^child ! 

Just  when  I  needed  most  to  live,  below 
Am  I  departing  from  you  both  ! 
Adm.  Ah  me ! 

And  what  shall  I  do  then  left  lonely  thus  ? 
A  Ik.  Time  will  appease  thee  :  who  is  dead  is  naught. 
Adm.  Take  me  with  thee :  take,  by  the  gods  below  ! 
A  Ik.  We  are  sufficient,  we  who  die  for  thee. 
Adm.  O,  Powers  !  ye  widow  me  of  what  a  wife  ! 

A  Ik.  And  truly  the  dimmed  eye  draws  earthward  now ! 
Adm.  Wife,  if  thou  leav'st  me,  I  am  lost  indeed  ! 
A  Ik.  She  once  was — now  is  nothing,  thou  may'st  say. 
Adm.  Raise  thy  face,  nor  forsake  thy  children  thus  ! 
Alk.  Ah,  willingly  indeed  I  leave  them  not ! 

But — fare  ye  well,  my  children  ! 
Adm.  Look  on  them — 

Look! 
Alk.  I  am  nothingness. 

Adm.  What  dost  thou  !    Leav'st— 

Alk.  Farewell ! 

The  most  pathetic  of  the  tragedians,  Aristotle  considers 
Euripides  to  be.  Here,  exercising  good  art,  he  prolongs  the 
pathos  of  the  scene  of  death  with  additional  exclamations 


Euripides.  197 


from  Admetus,  from  the  children,  and  from  the  chorus  of 
bystanders.  Admetus  bids  his  Thessalian  subjects  share  his 
grief  with  him.  They  must  clip  their  own  locks,  and  shear 
their  horses*  manes.  Twelve  months  they  must  refrain  from 
cheerful  music. 

The  chorus  hereupon  chant,  moving  in  mystic  dance  the 
while,  as  follows :  (for  this  lyric  strain  we  use  Mr.  Potter's 
rhymed  version): 

STROPHE  I. 
Immortal  bliss  be  thine, 
Daughter  of  Pelias,  in  the  realms  below ; 
Immortal  pleasures  round  thee  flow, 
Though  never  there  the  sun's  bright  beams  shall  shine. 
Be  the  black-brow'd  Pluto  told, 
And  the  Stygian  boatman  old. 
Whose  rude  hands  grasp  the  oar,  the  rudder  guide, 

The  dead  conveying  o'er  the  tide. 
Let  him  be  told,  so  rich  a  freight  before 
His  light  skiff  never  bore : 
Tell  him,  that  o'er  the  joyless  lakes 
The  noblest  of  her  sex  her  dreary  passage  takes. 

ANTISTROPHE   I. 

Thy  praise  the  bards  shall  tell, 
When  to  their  hymning  voice  the  echo  rings ; 
Or  when  they  sweep  the  solemn  strings, 
And  wake  to  rapture  the  seven-chorded  shell ; 
Or  in  Sparta's  jocund  bowers. 
Circling  when  the  vernal  hours 
Bring  the  Camean  feast ;  while  through  the  night 

Full-orb'd  the  high  moon  rolls  her  light ; 
Or  where  rich  Athens,  proudly  elevate. 
Shows  her  magnific  state  ; 
Their  voice  thy  glorious  death  shall  raise, 
And  swell  the  enraptured  strain  to  celebrate  thy  praise, 

STROPHE   II. 

O,  that  I  had  the  power, 
Could  I  but  bring  thee  from  the  shades  of  night 

Again  to  view  this  golden  light. 
To  leave  that  boat,  to  leave  that  dreary  shore, 


198  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


Where  Cocytus,  deep  and  wide, 
Rolls  along  his  sullen  tide  ! 
For  thou,  O  best  of  women,  thou  alone 

For  thy  lord's  life  daredst  give  thy  own. 
Light  lie  the  earth  upon  that  gentle  breast, 
And  be  thou  ever  bless'd  ! 
But  should  he  choose  to  wed  again. 
Mine  and  thy  children's  hearts  would  hold  him  in  disdain. 

ANTISTROPHE   II. 

When,  to  avert  his  doom. 
His  mother  in  the  earth  refused  to  lie  ; 

Nor  would  his  ancient  father  die 
To  save  his  son  from  an  untimely  tomb  ; 

Though  the  hand  of  time  had  spread 
Hoar  hairs  o'er  each  aged  head ; 
In  youth's  fresh  bloom,  in  beauty's  radiant  glow. 

The  darksome  way  thou  daredst  to  go. 
And  for  thy  youthful  lord's  to  give  thy  life. 
Be  mine  so  true  a  wife, 
Though  rare  the  lot :  then  should  I  prove 
The  indissoluble  bond  of  faithfulness  and  love. 

In  the  foregoing  version  of  this  Enripidean  chorus,  our 
readers  have  the  opportunity  of  studying  the  symmetry,  or 
correspondence  in  measure,  between  line  and  line,  in  strophe 
and  antistrophe  of  the  elaborate  Greek  choral  ode. 

The  sorrowful  monotony  of  the  play  now  suffers  a  sudden, 
almost  staggering,  interruption.  Heracles  (Hercules)  bursts 
in  with  a  gruff  and  bluff  heartiness  of  unconscious  discord, 
which  Mr.  Browning  well  reproduces.  In  truth,  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's admiring  idealization  of  Heracles  is  the  finest  thing  in 
his  whole  poem  of  "  Balaustion's  Adventure."  We  give  Bal- 
austion's  account  of  the  entrance  of  Heracles.  It  will  be 
observed  that  this  demigod  is  represented  by  Mr.  Browning 
as  a  great,  wholesome-hearted,  generous  champion  of  man- 
kind, feeding  enormously,but  not  gluttonously,  simply  to  repair 
the  waste  of  his  prodigious  exertions  on  behalf  of  the  suffer- 
ing.    Now  Mr.  Browning's  Balaustion,  with  her  narrative  of 


Euripides.  199 


the  representation  she  saw  of  Alcestis  (we  use  double  quota-  \ 

tion-marks  again  to  distingush  this  as  Browning,  not  Euripi-  j 
des ;  only  the  few  words  in  the  course  of  the  present  extract 
that  appear  single-quoted  being  translation  from  the  Greek): 

•*  A  great  voice — 

*  My  hosts  here  ! '  \ 

O,  the  thrill  that  ran  through  us ! 

Never  was  aught  so  good  and  opportune  \ 

As  that  great  interrupting  voice  !     For  see  !  ^ 

Here  maundered  this  dispirited  old  age  ) 

Before  the  palace  ;  whence  a  something  crept  i 

Which  told  us  well  enough  without  a  word  ■• 

What  was  a-doing  inside — every  touch  \ 

O'  the  garland  on  those  temples,  tenderest  i 

Disposure  of  each  arm  along  its  side,  j 
Came  putting  out  what  warmth  i'  the  world  was  left.                                  "      ■ 

Then,  as  it  happens  at  a  sacrifice  i 

When,  drop  by  drop,  some  lustral  bath  is  brimmed  :  j 

Into  the  thin  and  clear  and  cold,  at  once  1 

They  slaughter  a  whole  wine-skin  ;  Bacchos*  blood  ^ 

Sets  the  white  water  all  a-flame  :  even  so,  ! 
Sudden  into  the  midst  of  sorrow,  leapt 

Along  with  the  gay  cheer  of  that  great  voice,  .*■ 

Hope,  joy,  salvation  :  Herakles  was  here  !  ; 
Himself  o'  the  threshold,  sent  his  voice  on  first 

To  herald  all  that  human  and  divine  , 

I'  the  weary  happy  face  of  him — half  god,  ', 

Half  man,  which  made  the  god-part  god  the  more.  A 

*  Hosts  mine,'  he  broke  upon  the  sorrow  with,  i 
'  Inhabitants  of  this  Pheraian  soil,  ; 
Chance  I  upon  Admetos  inside  here  ?  *  | 

The  irresistible  sound  wholesome  heart  ] 

O'  the  hero^more  than  all  the  mightiness  < 

At  labor  in  the  limbs  that,  for  man's  sake,  1 
Labored  and  meant  to  labor  their  life  long — 

This  drove  back,  dried  up  sorrow  at  its  source.  - 

How  could  it  brave  the  happy  weary  laugh  ?  '; 

'  He  is  i'  the  house,'  they  answer." 


200  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

We  must  shorten  the  story  of  how  Admetus  concealed  from 
Heracles  the  true  situation  of  affairs  and  got  him  to  stay  as 
guest,  under  the  impression  that  only  a  stranger  woman  of 
the  house  had  died.  Admetus  did  not  quite  lie  outright  to 
his  guest-friend.  Who  is  the  man  that  has  died  ?  inquires 
Heracles.  Not  a  man — a  woman,  evades  Admetus.  Alien, 
then,  or  bom  kin  of  thine  }  pursues  Heracles.  Alien,  parries 
Admetus,  though  still  related  to  my  house.  Bystanders  and 
domestics  are  surprised  to  see  Admetus  insist  at  such  cost  on 
being  hospitable  to  the  stranger.  However,  the  complaisant 
chorus  laud  the  hospitality  of  the  house  in  a  strain  which, 
fortunately,  we  are  able  to  show  our  readers  under  a  noble 
form  given  to  it  by  one  who  signs  only  the  initials  "  T.  E. 
W.,"  to  this  choice  fragment  of  translation,  published  first  as 
a  contribution  to  the  "  College  Magazine,"  Dublin,  October, 
1857: 

Hail,  house  of  the  open  door, 

To  the  guest  and  the  wanderer  free  ! 
The  lord  of  the  lyre  himself  of  yore 

Deigned  to  inhabit  thee. 
In  thy  halls  disguised  in  his  shepherd's  weeds 
He  endured  for  a  while  to  stay, 
Through  the  upland  rocks 
To  the  feeding  flocks 
Piping  his  pastoral  lay. 
And  the  spotted  lynx  was  tame 

With  the  joy  of  the  mighty  spell ; 
And  a  tawny  troop,  the  lions  came 

From  the  leafy  Othrys'  dell ; 
And  where  the  tall  pines  waved  their  locks, 
Still  as  thy  lute  would  play, 
Light  tripped  the  fawn 
0*er  the  level  lawn 
Entranced  by  the  genial  lay. 
The  house  where  the  lord  Admetus  bides 

Is  blest  for  the  Pythian's  sake — 
Fast  by  the  shores  that  skirt  the  tides 
Of  the  pleasant  Bcebian  lake ; 


Euripides. 


His  fallows  and  fields  the  Molossians  bound 
Toward  the  stalls  of  the  Steeds  of  Day, 
And  to  airy  sweep 
Of  ^gean  steep 
All  Pelion  owns  his  sway. 
He  will  welcome  his  guest  with  a  moisten'd  lid. 

Though  the  halls  be  opened  wide  ; 
And  affection's  tear  will  start  unbid 

For  her  that  hath  lately  died. 
For  the  noble  heart  to  its  sorrows  yields  ; 
But  wise  is  the  good  man's  breast, 
And  my  faith  I  plight 
He  will  act  aright 
By  the  dead  and  the  stranger  guest. 

Admetus  invites  the  sympathizing  chorus  to  salute  his 
dead  wife  as  she  is  borne  to  the  tomb.  But  Euripides  pro- 
vides for  us  a  fresh  surprise.  It  is  a  scene  between  Admetus 
and  his  father  Pheres.  This  scene  is  so  scandalizing  to  our 
sense  of  what  is  decent  and  what  is  probable,  that  one  can 
hardly  read  it  without  feeling  in  it  an  effect  of  the  farcical. 
The  mixed  character  of  the  play  is  forced  by  it  still  more 
strongly  on  our  notice.  A  most  unseemly  altercation  takes 
place  between  father  and  son  over  the  very  bier  of  the  dead. 
Mere  selfishness  has  seldom  appeared  more  unrelievedly 
repulsive  than  in  this  scene  it  appears  as  exemplified  in 
Admetus.  The  whole  representation  seems  to  us  to  waver 
on  a  razor-edge  between  the  serious  and  the  comic.  The 
weight  of  a  feather  would  incline  it  irrecoverably  toward  the 
ridiculous.  Can  we  suspect  Euripides  of  laughing  in  his 
sleeve  while  he  makes  tragedy  for  others  of  what  is  pure 
burlesque  for  himself.'*  But  our  readers  must  see  a  sample 
of  what  it  is  that  we  are  talking  about.  Mr.  Browning 
seems  himself  to  have  felt  the  difficulty  for  which  we  have 
just  been  attempting  to  find  expression.  He  has  accordingly, 
with  much  fine  ingenuity,  devised  a  vindicatory  interpreta- 
tion of  Euripides  at  this  point,  which  our  readers  will  enjoy 
studying  in  the  full  text  of  "  Balaustion's  Adventure."  We 
9* 


202  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

omit  here  every  thing  but  the  translated  text  itself  of  the 
original,  and  that  we  condense  to  a  mere  fraction  of  its  full 
volume.  Pheres  enters  with  a  train  of  servants  bringing 
funeral  gifts  for  the  deceased  Alcestis.     He  speaks : 

Pheres.  Take  this  tribute  of  adornment,  deep 

In  the  earth  let  it  descend  along  with  her ! 
Behooves  we  treat  the  body  with  respect 
Of  one  who  died,  at  least,  to  save  thy  life, 
Kept  me  from  being  childless,  nor  allowed 
That  I,  bereft  of  thee,  should  peak  and  pine 
In  melancholy  age. 

I  maintain,  if  mortals  must 
Marry,  this  sort  of  marriage  is  the  sole 
Permitted  those  among  them  who  are  wise  ! 
Admetos,  Neither  to  this  interment  called  by  me 

Comest  thou,  nor  thy  presence  I  account 
Among  the  covetable  proofs  of  love. 
As  for  thy  tribute  of  adornment, — no  ! 
Ne'er  shall  she  don  it,  ne'er  in  debt  to  thee 
Be  buried  !  What  is  thine,  that  keep  thou  still ! 
Then  it  behooved  thee  to  commiserate 
When  I  was  perishing  :  but  thou,  who  stood'st 
Foot-free  o'  the  snare,  wast  acquiescent  then 
That  I,  the  young,  should  die,  not  thou,  the  old, — 
Wilt  thou  lament  this  corpse  thyself  hast  slain? 
Thou  wast  not,  then,  true  father  to  this  flesh, 
Nor  she,  who  makes  profession  of  my  birth, 
And  styles  herself  my  mother. 

And  yet  a  fair  strife  had  been  thine  to  strive, 
Dying  for  thine  own  child  ;  and  brief  for  thee 
In  any  case,  the  rest  of  time  to  live  ; 
While  I  had  lived,  and  she,  our  rest  of  time. 
Nor  I  been  left  to  groan  in  solitude. 

How  vainly  do  these  aged  pray  for  death, 
Abuse  the  slow  drag  of  senility  ! 
But  should  death  step  up,  nobody  inclines 
To  die,  nor  age  is  now  the  weight  it  was  ! 


Euripides.  203 


Chorus.  Pause  ! 

Enough  the  present  sorrow  !     Nor,  O  son. 
Whet  thus  against  thyself  thy  fathers  soul ! 

Pheres.  Never  did  I  receive  it  as  a  law- 
Hereditary,  no,  nor  Greek  at  all. 
That  sires  in  place  of  sons  were  bound  to  die. 

Long  I  account  the  time  to  pass  below, 

And  brief  my  span  of  days  ;  yet  sweet  the  same. 

Shrewdly  hast  thou  contrived  how  not  to  die 
For  evermore  now  ;  'tis  but  still  persuade 
The  wife  for  the  time  being — take  thy  place  ! 
What,  and  thy  friends  who  would  not  do  the  like 
These  dost  thou  carp  at,  craven  thus  thyself? 
Crouch  and  be  silent,  craven  !     Comprehend 
That,  if  thou  lovest  so  that  life  of  thine, 
Why  every  body  loves  his  own  life,  too  ; 
So,  good  words  henceforth  !     If  thou  speak  us  ill, 
Many  and  true  an  ill  thing  shalt  thou  hear  ! 
Cho.  Too  much  evil  spoke 

On  both  sides  ! 

But  the  unspeakable  wrangle  runs  on  page  after  page,  for 
all  the  sound  admonition  of  the  chorus.  Admetus  at  last 
bids  the  funeral  train  proceed. 

We  give  now  enough  of  what  Mr.  Browning,  by  way  of 
connection,  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Balaustion,  to  furnish  our 
readers  a  hint  of  the  decidedly  modern  psychological  treat- 
ment which  this  master  in  that  kind  applies  to  the  present 
production  of  Euripides.  Admetus  is  made  to  be  undergoing 
a  process  of  development  toward  better  character.  He  will, 
according  to  Mr.  Browning,  be  quite  redeemed  before  all  is 
done    (Browning  this,  not  Euripides): 

*'  So,  the  old  selfish  Pheres  went  his  way. 

Case-hardened  as  he  came  ;  and  left  the  youth 

(Only  half-selfish  now,  since  sensitive) 

To  go  on  learning  by  a  light  the  more, 

As  friends  moved  off,  renewing  dirge  the  while." 


204                   College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

Here  is  the  choric  dirge  from  Euripides  referred  to :  i 

Unhappy  in  thy  daring  !     Noble  dame,  : 

Best  of  the  good,  farewell !     With  favoring  face  j 

May  Hermes  the  infernal.  Hades  too,  \ 

Receive  thee  !     And  if  there,  ay,  there,  some  touch  1 

Of  further  dignity  await  the  good,  ! 

Sharing  with  them,  may'st  thou  sit  throned  by  her  ^ 

The  Bride  of  Hades,  in  companionship  !  \ 

The  funeral  train  now  fairly  on  the  way,  the  scene  returns  '• 
to  Heracles  in  the  house.     The  free  manner  of  the  guest  dis- 
pleased the  servant  detailed  to  wait  upon  him.     This  testy  \ 
old  fellow  soliloquizes  to  the  guest's  disadvantage  as  follows,  ] 
(we  abridge :)                                                                                  '  S 

Here  am  I  helping  make  at  home  i 

A  guest,  some  fellow  ripe  for  wickedness,  \ 

Robber  or  pirate,  while  she  goes  her  way  \ 
Out  of  her  house  :  and  neither  was  it  mine                                      -    \ 

To  follow  in  procession,  nor  stretch  forth  ] 

Hand,  wave  my  lady  dear  a  last  farewell,  ^ 

Lamenting  who  to  me  and  all  of  us  \ 

Domestics  was  a  mother  :  myriad  harms  \ 

She  used  to  ward  away  from  every  one,  \ 

And  mollify  her  husband's  ireful  mood.  j 

I  ask,  then,  do  I  justly  hate  or  no  j 

This  guest,  this  interloper  on  our  grief?  \ 

\ 
There  follows,  in  Mr.  Browning's  poem,  a  long  passage  of 

the  English  poet's  own,  very  nobly  idealizing  and  tranfiguring  j 

Heracles.     All  this  changed  Heracles  is  found,  by  a  creative  \ 

poetic  eye,  between  the  lines  of  Euripides — who  himself  sim-  i 
ply  makes  Heracles  speak  out  with  rough  good-humor  to  the 

vinegar-visaged  attendant,  thus  :  \ 

Her.                                                      Thou,  there !  j 

Why  look'st  so  solemn  and  so  thought-absorbed  ?  \ 

To  guests,  a  servant  should  not  sour-faced  be,  ^ 

But  do  the  honors  with  a  mind  urbane.  1 


Euripides.  205  j 


Give  ear  to  me,  then  !     For  all  flesh  to  die 

Is  nature's  due  ;  nor  is  there  any  one 

Of  mortals  with  assurance  he  shall  last 

The  coming  morrow  :  for,  what's  born  of  chance 

Invisibly  proceeds  the  way  it  will, 

Not  to  be  learned,  no  fortune-teller's  prize. 

This,  therefore,  having  heard  and  known  through  me, 

Gladden  thyself !     Drink  !     Count  the  day-by-day 

Existence  thine,  and  all  the  other — chance  ! 

Wilt  not  thou,  then, — discarding  overmuch 
Mournfulness,  do  away  with  this  shut  door, 
Come  drink  along  with  me,  be-garlanded 
This  fashion  ?     Do  so — and — I  well  know  what — 
From  this  stern  mood,  this  shrunk-up  state  of  mind, 
The  pit-pat  fall  o'  the  flagon-juice  down  throat 
Soon  will  dislodge  thee  from  bad  harborage  ! 

It  soon  comes  out,  for  the  enlightenment  of  Heracles,  that 
it  was  Alcestis  herself  who  had  died.  Heracles  suffers  a 
violent  revulsion  from  gay  to  sad.     He  exclaims  : 

Her.  But  I  divined  it !  seeing,  as  I  did. 

His  eye  that  ran  with  tears,  his  close-clipt  hair, 
His  countenance  ! 

And  do  I  revel  yet 
With  wreath  on  head  ?     But — thou  to  hold  thy  peace, 
Nor  tell  me  what  a  woe  oppressed  my  friend  ! 
Where  is  he  gone  to  bury  her  ?     Where  am  I 
To  go  and  find  her? 

Heracles  takes  his  resolution.  He  will  go  to  the  tomb  and 
rescue  Alcestis  yet.     Here  are  his  words  : 

Her.  O  much-enduring  heart  and  hand  of  mine  ! 

I  will  go  lie  in  wait  for  Death,  black-stoled 
King  of  the  corpses  !     I  shall  find  him,  sure, 
Drinking  beside  the  tomb,  o'  the  sacrifice  : 
And  if  I  lie  in  ambuscade,  and  leap 


2o6                    College  Greek  Course  in  English.  ■] 

Out  of  my  lair,  and  seize — encircle  him  ^ 

Till  one  hand  join  the  other  round  about —  ■ 

There  lives  not  who  shall  pull  him  out  from  me,  j 

Rib-mauled,  before  he  let  the  woman  go  !  .          ! 

But  even  say  I  miss  the  booty — say,  \ 

Death  comes  not  to  the  boltered  blood  — why  then 

Down  go  I,  to  the  unsunned  dwelling-place  \ 

O'  Kore  and  the  king  there — make  demand,  •  \ 

Confident  I  shall  bring  Alkestis  back,  ' 

So  as  to  put  her  in  the  hands  of  him 

My  host,  that  housed  me,  never  drove  me  off : 

Though  stricken  with  sore  sorrow,  hid  the  stroke, 

Being  a  noble  heart  and  honoring  me  ! 

Meantime  the  procession  returns  from  the  grave.  With          i 

admirable  amplification  of  pathetic  speech  and  circumstance,  ' 

Euripides    displays    the    grief    of    Admetus    revisiting   his  j 
"  chambers  emptied  of  delight."     The  chorus  intervene  with 

their  exasperating  commonplace  of  consolation.     They  end  i 

by  chanting  a  high  strain  in  celebration  of  the  inexorableness  \ 

of  Necessity.     This  we  give  in  the  rhymed  version  of  Potter :  ' 

STROPHE   I.  j 

My  venturous  foot  delights  ' 
To  tread  the  Muses'  arduous  heights : 

Their  hallow'd  haunts  I  love  to  explore,  i 

And  listen  to  their  lore  :  i 

Yet  never  could  my  searching  mind  i 

Aught,  like  Necessity,  resistless  find :      '  \ 
No  herb,  of  sovereign  power  to  save. 
Whose  virtues  Orpheus  joy'd  to  trace, 

And  wrote  them  in  the  rolls  of  Thrace  ;  .; 

Nor  all  that  Phoebus  gave,  \ 

Instructing  the  Asclepian  train,  ; 

When  various  ills  the  human  frame  assail,  \ 

To  heal  the  wound,  to  soothe  the  pain,  i 

'Gainst  her  stern  force  avail. 

ANTI  STROPHE  I.  j 

Of  all  the  powers  divine 

Alone  none  dares  approach  her  shrine :  : 


Euripides.  207 


To  her  no  hallow'd  image  stands,  \ 

No  altar  she  commands  ;  j 

In  vain  the  victim's  blood  would  flow  ;  \ 

She  never  deigns  to  hear  the  suppliant  now.  ^ 

Never  to  me  may'st  thou  appear,  '^ 

Dread  goddess,  with  severer  mien,  J 

That  oft,  in  life's  past  tranquil  scene,  | 

Thou  hast  been  known  to  wear.  \ 

By  thee  Jove  works  his  stern  behest  :  \ 

Thy  force  subdues  ev'n  Scythia's  stubborn  steel ;  ' 

Nor  ever  does  thy  rugged  breast 

The  touch  of  pity  feel.  \ 

STROPHE  II.                                                                    '  ] 

And  now,  with  ruin  pleased,  I 
On  thee,  O  king,  her  hands  have  seized. 
And  bound  thee  in  her  iron  chain  : 

Yet  her  fell  force  sustain  ;  ! 
For,  from  the  gloomy  realms  of  night 

No  tears  recall  the  dead  to  life's  sweet  light ;  j 

No  virtue,  though  to  heaven  allied,  : 
Saves  from  the  inevitable  doom  : 

Heroes  and  sons  of  gods  have  died,  ] 

And  sunk  into  the  tomb.  ] 

Dear,  while  our  eyes  her  presence  bless'd  ;  : 

Dear,  in  the  gloomy  mansions  of  the  dead  :  \ 

Most  generous  she,  the  noblest,  best,  ] 

Who  graced  thy  nuptial  bed. 

ANTISTROPHE   II. 

Thy  wife's  sepulchral  mound 
Deem  not  as  common  worthless  ground, 
That  swells  their  breathless  bodies  o'er. 

Who  die,  and  are  no  more.  ; 

No  :  be  it  honor'd  as  a  shrine  i 

Raised  high,  and  hallow'd  to  some  power  divine.  ' 

The  traveler,  as  he  passes  by,  | 
Shall  thither  bend  his  devious  way  ; 

With  reverence  gaze,  and  with  a  sigh                                               ,  i 

Smite  on  his  breast,  and  say,  \ 

*'  She  died  of  old  to  save  her  lord  ;  ! 

Now  bless'd  among  the  bless'd.     Hail,  power  revered  ;  f 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


To  us  thy  wonted  grace  afford  ! " 
Such  vows  shall  be  preferr'd. 
But  see,  Admetus,  to  thy  house,  I  ween, 
Alcmena's  son  bends  his  returning  steps. 

By  this  time  Heracles  has  come  back  with  a  genuine  sur- 
prise prepared  for  Admetus.  But  there  is  considerable 
suspense  of  the  agreeable  shock.  This  provides  for  a  pro- 
longed enjoyment,  on  the  part  of  spectators,  who  watch  the 
scene  between  Heracles  and  Admetus  with  the  delicious 
interest  of  persons  admitted  to  the  secret  of  a  gracious  plot 
in  process  of  unfolding  before  their  eyes.  First,  Heracles 
upbraids  Admetus  for  not  having  been  frank  with  him  about 
the  death  of  Alcestis.  He  then  mysteriously  adverts  to  the 
woman  he  has  brought  with  him.  In  a  contest  just  waged 
by  him,  he  had  won  her  for  prize.  Would  Admetus  be  good 
enough  to  take  charge  of  her  while  he  (Heracles)  should 
be  absent  on  his  next  adventure  .•*  But  Admetus  demurs. 
He  urges  various  reasons  why  it  were  not  meet.  Glancing 
at  the  woman's  form,  he  exclaims  at  her  resemblance  to 
Alcestis.     Then  to  Heracles  he  says,  entreating : 

Admetos.  Ah,  me  ! 

Take — by  the  gods  ! — this  woman  from  my  sight, 

Lest  thou  undo  me,  the  undone  before  ! 

Since  I  seem — seeing  her — as  if  I  saw 

My  own  wife  !     And  confusions  cloud  my  heart, 

And  from  my  eyes  the  springs  break  forth  !     Ah,  me, 

Unhappy  I — How  I  taste,  for  the  first  time, 

My  misery  in  all  its  bitterness  ! 

The  chorus  venture  to  advise  in  favor  of  taking  the  woman. 
The  interchange  following  of  short,  generally  one-line,  re- 
marks between  Heracles  and  Admetus  must  be  given  our 
readers.  This  brisk  back  and  forth  is  a  favorite  form  of  dia- 
logue with  the  Greek  tragedians.  Readers  may  see  it  imi- 
tated in  Milton's  Mask  of  Comus.  Also,  in  Milton's  Samson 
Agonistes — which  is  almost  Greek  tragedy  itself  reproduced, 


Euripides.  209 


alike  in  form  and  in  power,  though,  by  the  Hebrew  spirit  of  i 
the  author  and  of  the  subject,  the  English  poem  is  unavoid-  • 
ably  qualified  and  heightened  with  a  characteristic  difference.  i 
The  Atalanta  in  Calydon  of  Mr.  Swinburne  is  another  i 
modern  antique  worthy  to  be  studied  and — herein  unlike 
many  of  this  gifted  but  not  scrupulous  poet's  productions —  \ 
morally  not  unfit  to  be  studied.  Now  the  dialogue  of  ap-  .\ 
proach  to  the  final  disclosure.  We  choose  for  this  the  ren- 
dering of  Potter,  which  reproduces  better  the  effect  of  the  ■ 
single  lines  in  the  original  Greek :  ; 

Herakles.  O  that  from  Jove  I  had  the  power  to  bring  " 

Back  from  the  mansions  of  the  dead  thy  wife  ] 

To  heaven's  fair  light,  that  grace  achieving  for  thee  !  I 
Admetos.  I  know  thy  friendly  will :  but  how  can  this 

Be  done  ?    Tho  dead  return  not  to  this  light !  \ 

Her.  Check,  then,  thy  swelling  griefs  ;  with  reason  rule  them. 
Adm.  How  easy  to  advise,  but  hard  to  bear  ! 

Her.  What  would  it  profit  shouldst  thou  always  groan  ? 

Adm.  I  know  it ;  but  I  am  in  love  with  grief.  i 

Her.  Love  to  the  dead  calls  forth  the  ceaseless  tear.  n 

Adm.  O,  I  am  wretched  more  than  words  can  speak.  ^ 

Her.  A  good  wife  hast  thou  lost :  who  can  gainsay  it  ?  { 

Adm.  Never  can  life  be  pleasant  to  me  more.  '■ 

Her.  Thy  sorrow  now  is  new  ;  time  will  abate  it.  j 

Adm.  Time,  say'st  thou?    Yes,  the  time  that  brings  me  death.  I 

Her.  Some  young  and  lovely  bride  will  bid  it  cease.  ^ 

Adm.  No  more  ;  what  say'st  thou  ?     Never  would  I  think —  \ 

Hef.  Wilt  thou  still  lead  a  lonely,  widow'd  life  ? 

Adm.  Never  shall  other  woman  share  my  bed.  1 

Her.  And  think'st  thou  this  will  aught  avail  the  dead  ?  i 

Adm.  This  honor  is  her  due  where'er  she  be.  , 

Her.  This  hath  my  praise,  though  near  allied  to  frenzy.  ' 

Adm.  Praise  me  or  not,  I  ne'er  will  wed  again.  \ 

Her.  I  praise  thee  that  thou  art  faithful  to  thy  wife.  \ 

Adm.  Though  dead,  if  I  betray  her,  may  I  die  !  •; 

Her.  Well,  take  this  noble  lady  to  thy  house.  i 

Adm.  No,  by  thy  father  Jove  let  me  entreat  thee.  "; 

Her.  Not  to  do  this  would  be  the  greatest  wrong.  ■ 

Adm.  To  do  it  would  with  anguish  rend  my  heart.  \ 


2IO  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

Her.   Let  me  prevail ;  this  grace  may  find  its  meed. 
Adm.  O  that  thou  never  hadst  received  this  prize  ! 
Her.  Yet  in  my  victory  thou  art  victor  with  me. 
Adm.  'Tis  nobly  said  !  yet  let  this  woman  go. 
Her.  If  she  must  go,  she  shall :  but  must  she  go? 
Adm.  She  must,  if  I  incur  not  thy  displeasure. 
Her.  There  is  a  cause  that  prompts  my  earnestness. 
Adm.  Thou  hast  prevail'd,  but  much  against  my  will. 
Her.  The  time  will  come  when  thou  wilt  thank  me  for  it. 
Adm.  Well,  if  I  must  receive  her,  lead  her  in. 
Her.  Charge  servants  with  her  !     No,  that  must  not  be. 
Adm.  Lead  her  thyself  then,  if  thy  will  incline  thee. 
Her.  No,  to  thy  hand  alone  will  I  commit  her. 
Adtn.  I  touch  her  not ;  but  she  hath  leave  to  enter. 
Her.  I  shall  intrust  her  only  to  thy  hand. 
Adm.  Thou  dost  constrain  me,  king,  against  my  will. 
Her.  Venture  to  stretch  thy  hand,  and  touch  the  stranger's. 
Adm.  I  touch  her  as  I  would  the  headless  Gorgon. 
Her.  Hast  thou  her  hand  ? 
Adm.  I  have. 

Her.  Then  hold  her  safe ; 

Hereafter  thou  wilt  say  the  son  of  Jove 
Hath  been  a  generous  guest.     View  now  her  face : 
See  if  she  bears  resemblance  to  thy  wife  ; 
And  thus  made  happy,  bid  farewell  to  grief. 
Adm.  O  gods,  what  shall  I  say?    'Tis  marvelous. 
Exceeding  hope.     See  I  my  wife  indeed. 
Or  doth  some  god  distract  me  with  false  joy  ? 
Her.  In  very  deed  dost  thou  behold  thy  wife. 
Adm.  See  that  it  be  no  phantom  from  beneath. 
Her.  Make  not  thy  friend  one  that  evokes  the  shades. 
Adm.  And  do  I  see  my  wife,  whom  I  entomb'd  ? 
Her.  I  marvel  not  that  thou  art  diffident. 
Adm.  I  touch  her ;  may  I  speak  to  her  as  living  ? 
Her.  Speak  to  her,  thou  hast  all  thy  heart  could  wish. 
Adm.  Dearest  of  women,  do  I  see  again 

That  face,  that  person  ?     This  exceeds  all  hope. 
I  never  thought  that  I  should  see  thee  more. 
Her.  Thou  hast  her  ;  may  no  god  be  envious  to  thee  ! 
Adm.  O  be  thou  bless'd,  thou  generous  son  of  Jove  ! 
Thy  father's  might  protect  thee  !     Thou  alone 


Euripides.  211 


Hast  raised  her  to  me :  from  the  realms  below  - 

How  hast  thou  brought  her  to  the  light  of  life?  ,i 

Her.  r  fought  with  him  that  lords  it  o'er  the  shades.  i 

Adm,  Where  with  the  gloomy  tyrant  didst  thou  fight?  ; 

Her.  I  lay  in  wait,  and  seized  him  at  the  tomb.  '                     ] 

Adm.  But  wherefore  doth  my  wife  thus  speechless  stand  ?  ; 

Her.  It  is  not  yet  permitted  that  thou  hear  • 

Her  voice  addressing  thee,  till  from  the  gods  \ 

That  rule  beneath  she  be  unsanctified  ; 

With  hallow'd  rites,  and  the  third  mom  return.  \ 

But  lead  her  in  :  and,  as  thou  art  just  in  all  j 

Besides,  Admetus,  see  thou  reverence  strangers,  ' 

Farewell :  I  go  to  achieve  the  destined  toil.  ' 
For  the  imperial  son  of  Sthenelus. 

Adm.  Abide  with  us,  and  share  my  friendly  hearth.  ; 

Her.  That  time  will  come  again  :  this  demands  speed.  i 

Adm.  Success  attend  thee  :  safe  mayest  thou  return  ; 

Now  to  my  citizens  I  give  in  charge,  ^ 

And  to  each  chief,  that  for  this  bless'd  event  ^ 

They  institute  the  dance,  let  the  steer  bleed,  j 

And  the  rich  altars,  as  they  pay  their  vows,  ) 
Breathe  incense  to  the  gods  ;  for  now  I  rise 

To  better  life,  and  grateful  own  the  blessing.  \ 

The  chorus  have  the  last  word  and  moralize  the  action,  j 

thus :  ^           ' 
Cho.  With  various  hand  the  gods  dispense  our  fates: 

Now  showering  various  blessings,  which  our  hopes  ' 

Dared  not  aspire  to  ;  now  controlling  ills 

We  deem'd  inevitable  :  thus  the  god,  ' 

To  these  hath  given  an  end  exceeding  thought. 

Such  is  the  fortune  of  this  happy  day. 

Mr.  Browning,  in  his  "  Balaustion's  Adventure,"  follows  i 
up  what  he  in  his  title  calls  his  "  transcript  of  Euripides,"  \ 
with  a  tentative  poem  of  his  own  on  the  same  theme.  In  it  ■ 
he  seeks  to  "adorn  and  hide  "  the  bareness  and  baldness  of  ^ 
the  ancient  legend  by  a  very  clever  psychological  interpreta- 
tion, distinctively  modern,  and  delightfully  racy  of  this  '\ 
particular  writer's  individual  genius.  We  commend  Mr. 
Browning's  whole  poem  to  our  readers'  attention.  \ 


212  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

There  is  a  wide,  and  even  violent,  difference  of  opinion 
among  good  authorities  on  the  merits  of  Euripides,  Some 
critics  consider  him  essentially  melodramatic  in  quality, 
rather  than  truly  tragic.  These  find  in  him  a  sudden  and 
rapid  degeneration  and  decline  of  Greek  tragedy  from  the 
brief  and  splendid  culmination  reached  in  Sophocles.  Other 
critics,  on  the  contrary,  consider  Euripides  hardly  inferior 
to  his  rivals.  These  more  friendly  judges  claim  for  their  poet 
a  greater  breadth  of  human  sympathy,  to  compensate  for  his 
less  height  and  purity  and  power  of  poetry,  as  compared 
with  ^schylus  and  Sophocles.  Mrs.  Browning's  stanza, 
quoted  by  Mr.  Browning  as  a  kind  of  motto  to  his  Balaus- 
tion's  Adventure,  expresses  the  sympathetically  appreciative 
view  of  Euripides : 

Our  Euripides,  the  human, 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears. 

And  his  touches  of  things  common 
Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres. 

Euripides  is  said  to  have  been  Milton's  favorite  among  the 
Greek  tragedians.  "  Sad  Electra's  poet,"  Milton  calls  him, 
in  one  of  his  sonnets — this,  from  the  title  '*  Electra  "  of  a 
tragedy  of  his.  (Sophocles  treats  the  same  subject  under  the 
same  title).  In  another  of  his  sonnets,  that  on  his  deceased 
wife,  Milton  has  the  following  allusion : 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave. 

Goethe  stood  stoutly  up  for  Euripides  against  Schlegel  and 
other  destructive  critics  among  the  Germans.  Mr.  J.  A. 
Symonds,  in  his  admirable  "  Studies  of  the  Greek  Poets," 
and  Mr.  Mahaffy,  in  his  "  History  of  Classical  Greek  Litera- 
ture," do  likewise.  His  contemporary,  Aristophanes,  the  ter- 
rible Athenian  satirist,  sworn  foe  ever  to  Euripides,  no 
doubt  did  much  with  his  ridicule  to  set  the  fashion  of  ad- 
verse criticism  that  has  prevailed  so  long  and  so  widely.    But 


Euripides.  213 


over  against  the  hostility  of  Aristophanes  may  be  set  the  well- 
known  friendship  of  Socrates  for  the  poet.  On  the  whole, 
Euripides  has  support  that  may  well  justify  him  in  smiling  at 
his  enemies.  And,  in  the  face  of  whatever  criticism,  he  has 
constantly  persisted  a  popular  poet. 

The  Alcestis,  we  owe  it  alike  to  the  poet  and  to  our  read- 
ers to  explain,  is  one  among  those  dramas  of  Euripides  in 
which  the  model,  bequeathed  to  him  by  his  seniors,  of  severe 
and  pure  tragedy,  is  most  frankly  departed  from,  and  ap- 
proach is  most  decidedly  made  toward  that  mixed  character  of 
the  play,  part  tragic  and  part  comic,  familiar  to  us  moderns, 
for  instance,  in  the  works  of  Shakespeare.  There  are  dramas 
in  Euripides  far  more  unmixedly  tragic  than  the  Alcestis. 
From  one  of  these,  the  Me-de'a,  a  powerful  but  disagree- 
able piece,  we  take  a  celebrated  chorus  in  part  eulogistic 
of  Athens.  With  this  extract,  given  in  the  rhymed  rendering 
of  Potter,  we  dismiss  Euripides,  and  with  Euripides  the  Greek 
tragedists,  from  our  hands.  We  regret  that  our  space  has 
forbidden  a  fuller  and  more  various  exhibition  of  these  great 
writers.  But  readers  may  feel  compensated  with  the  reflec- 
tion that,  even  as  the  case  stands,  they  have  had  more  of  the 
Greek  tragedies  than  it  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  college 
graduate  to  have  obtained  in  the  course  of  his  regular  class- 
room work.     Here  is  the  promised  chorus  : 

STROPHE   I. 

Lo,  where  the  bless'd  Cecropian  race, 

Through  many  a  rolling  age  renown'd, 
•Who  from  the  gods  their  lineage  trace, 

And  their  unconquer'd  sacred  ground. 
Nurtured  in  wisdom's  noblest  lore, 
The  purest  air  delighted  breathe 
The  clearest  skies  beneath, 
Where,  as  they  saj',  in  times  of  yore 
The  Muses  from  Pieria's  chaste  retreat 
Planted  their  loved  Plarmonia's  golden  seat. 


214  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

ANTISTROPHE  I. 

And  where  Cephisus  through  the  vale 
Labors  his  beauteous-winding  way, 
As  Venus  drew  the  freshing  gale, 

She  bade  the  gladsome  Zepliyrs  play. 
And  wave  their  light  wings  o'er  the  land : 
Then  as  the  roseate  wreath  she  twined, 
Her  fragrant  locks  to  bind, 
She  sent  her  sons,  a  decent  band, 
Near  Wisdom's  hallow'd  seat  to  hold  their  place, 
And  breathe  on  virtue  their  divinest  grace. 

STROPHE  II. 

How  shall  these  sacred  streams,  this  state. 

This  town,  though  prompt,  when  Friendship  calls, 
To  ope  each  hospitable  gate, 

Thee  in  its  bowers,  its  glades,  its  walls 
Receive,  from  this  unhallow'd  deed 
Polluted  with  thy  children's  gore  ? 
Ah,  spare  them,  we  implore  : 
Let  not  their  guiltless  bosoms  bleed  ! 
Behold  us  prostrate  at  thy  feet ;  forbear. 
Thy  sons  ;  let  friendship  plead,  and  pity  spare  ! 

ANTISTROPHE  II. 
What  rashness,  fired  with  frantic  rage, 

Urged  to  these  thoughts  accursed  thy  mind  ? 
How  would  thy  daring  hands  engage 
To  do  the  deed  thy  soul  design'd  ? 
The  children  by  the  mother  slain  ! 

Couldst  thou  with  tearless  eyes  behold 
In  blood  thy  offspring  roll'd  ? 
Or  can  thy  ruthless  heart  sustain 
To  see  thy  kneeling  sons  for  mercy  sue, 
Yet  in  their  blood  thy  horrid  hands  imbrue. 

The  clear  beauty  of  the  first  part  seems  almost  unnatu- 
rally joined  to  the  hideous  ugliness  of  the  close  of  this 
choice  ode — a  close  wherein  a  glimpse  is  afforded  to  the 
reader  of  the  revolting  deed  in  which  the  action  of  the 
tragedy  culminates. 


Euripides.  215 


We  cannot  perhaps  provide  a  better  epilogue,  as  we  now 
take  final  leave  of  the  three  great  Grecians  joined  in  their 
secure  immortality  of  associate  fame,  than  by  quoting  here 
the  appreciation  of  them  which  Mrs.  Browning  has,  with  fine 
discrimination  of  their  several  qualities,  picturesquely  rhymed 
for  us  in  her  poem,  all  Greek,  entitled  *'  Wine  of  Cyprus." 
If  it  were  not  that  we  must  interpose  next  some  notice  of  a 
strongly  contrasted  genius  in  Aristophanes,  we  might  at  the 
same  time,  by  carrying  forward  our  quotation  from  Mrs. 
Browning  to  the  completing  of  the  stanza,  usher  into  pres- 
ence through  her  verse  the  idyllic  poets  of  Syracuse  and  the 
splendor-loving  lyrist  of  Thebes,  who  will  shortly  command 
our  attention.  On  the  whole,  we  will,  for  the  moment,  ignore 
the  disjunctive  link  of  Aristophanes,  and  let  Mrs.  Browning 
speak  as  well  of  Theocritus  and  Bion,  and  of  Pindar,  as  of 
^schylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides.  Her  poem  is  an  epis- 
tolary one,  addressed  to  a  former  companion  of  hers  in 
Greek  study,  and  is  reminiscent  of  experiences  common  to 
the  two  fellow-students : 

O,  our  iEschylus,  the  thunderous  ! 

How  he  drove  the  bolted  breath 
Through  the  cloud,  to  wedge  it  ponderous 

In  the  gnarled  oak  beneath. 
O,  our  Sophocles,  the  royal, 

Who  was  born  to  monarch's  place, 
And  who  made  the  whole  world  loyal, 

Less  by  kingly  power  than  grace. 

Our  Euripides,  the  human, 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears, 
And  his  touches  of  things  common 

Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres  ! 
Our  Theocritus,  our  Bion, 

And  our  Pindar's  shining  goals  ! 
These  were  cup-bearers  undying, 

Of  the  wine  that's  meant  for  souls. 


2l6 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


I  ARISTOPHANES. 


VIII. 

ARISTOPHANES. 

Aristophanes  stands  alone  as  representative  to  us  of  Greek 
comedy.  There  were  many  other  comic 
poets  in  Greece — that  is,  in  Athens,  for 
almost  it  might  be  said  that  in  literature 
Athens  was  Greece — of  whom  some  were 
considerable  enough  in  genius  and  in  rep- 
utation to  dispute  successfully  the  palm 
with  Aristophanes;  but  Aristophanes  en- 
joys the  fortune  of  surviving  in  a  number 
(eleven)  of  his  productions,  while  all  his 
peers  and  rivals  have  vanished  from  hu- 
man memory  in  every  thing  but  perhaps  a 
name  surrounded  with  its  vain  tradition  of 
pristine  renown. 
We  could  hardly  let  this  volume  appear  without  a  chapter 
inscribed  by  title  to  Aristophanes.  But  we  shall  feel  it  nec- 
essary to  make  this  our  monument  to  his  genius  hardly  more 
than  a  cenotaph  in  his  honor.  A  handful,  nay,  a  pinch,  of 
dust  is  all  that  will  here  be  collected  to  suggest  the  literary 
remains  of  Aristophanes.  Comedy  is  in  its  nature  one  of 
the  most  fugacious  of  all  literary  forms.  Incredible  archae- 
ological learning  and  pains  have  been  expended  in  the  en- 
deavor to  revive  the  knowledge  of  history  and  of  manners 
needful  to  the  intelligent  appreciation  of  Aristophanes.  But 
the  truth  is,  that  the  spirit  of  the  Aristophanic  comedy  was  an 
excessively  volatile  spirit.  Long  ago  it  escaped  hopelessly, 
hopelessly  evanished,  into  the  illimitable  air.  Nobody  will 
ever  gather  it  thence  again  and  restore  it  to  the  body  of 
literature  which  once  it  made  quick  with  a  sparkle  of  vivac- 
ity as  brilliant  as  it  was  evanescent,  but  which  it,  fleeing 


Aristophanes.  217 


away,  left  for  the  most  part  irredeemably  stale,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable. 

Still  the  great  features  of  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes 
remain  and  may  be  studied.  Besides,  there  are  particular 
passages  here  and  there  vivified  yet  with  a  flavor  apprecia- 
ably  pungent,  and  not  entirely  repugnant,  to  modem  taste. 

The  feature  that  strikes  one  most  is  probably  the  enor- 
mous indulgence  of  the  grotesque  and  fantastic  that  Aristo- 
phanes displays.  Verisimilitude,  probability,  is  violated 
with  the  utmost  conceivable  license.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  be 
a  law  of  the  Aristophanic  comedy  to  let  fancy  run  absolutely 
riot.  There  is  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  carnival  pres- 
ent in  it  all.  The  broadest  farce,  the  most  Titanic  sport, 
invention  the  most  capricious,  personal  abuse  without  limit, 
coarseness,  incredible  coarseness,  abound.  The  coarseness  is  a 
coarseness  so  utterly  devoid  of  scruple  that,  insinuation  and 
indirection  quite  dispensed  with,  indecency  flaunts  itself 
naked,  not  only  without  shame,  but  without  conscious- 
ness, or  rather  with  a  staggering  air  of  actual  piety — as  if 
lewdness  were  religion.  Every  imaginable  excess  reigns 
here  and  revels. 

The  idea  just  suggested  of  piety  present  in  Athenian 
comedy  to  sanction  and  sanctify  lewdness,  must  not  be  taken 
to  be  rhetorical  hyperbole.  It  is  literal  fact.  The  comedies 
of  Athens  were  always  presented  as  a  part  of  the  great  Di- 
on ysiac  festivals  occurring  at  Athens  three  times  each  year. 
The  wild  extravagances  in  conduct  that  made  up  these  fes- 
tivals of  Bacchus  were  not  things  winked  at  by  public  senti- 
ment, but  things  enjoined  by  public  sentiment  and  encour- 
aged. They  became,  indeed,  portion  and  parcel  of  the  na- 
tional religion.  It  was  an  illustration  of  what  Paul  says  of 
the  heathen  world  :  "  As  they  did  not  like  to  retain  God  in 
their  knowledge,  (jod  gave  them  over  to  a  reprobate  mind 
to  do  those  things  which  are  not  convenient."  Conceive  the 
confusion  of  moral  ideas  implied  in  such  a  state  of  things ! 
10 


2i8  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Vice  not  simply  practiced,  but  practiced  as  virtue  !  Orgies 
of  uncleanness  celebrated  for  worship  of  God  !  The  awful 
admonitory  words  of  Jesus  recur,  "  If  the  light  that  is  in  thee 
be  darkness,  how  great  is  that  darkness  !  " 

The  modern  comedy  turns  chiefly  on  social  ideas  and  man- 
ners. The  ancient  Greek  comedy  was  mainly  political  in  mo- 
tive and  interest.  It  fulfilled,  in  a  measure,  the  same  func- 
tion as  that  of  the  partisan  newspaper  press  of  our  times.  The 
leading  "editorial,"  instead  of  being  printed  and  circulated, 
was  enacted  and  exhibited  on  the  stage.  But  the  paragraph, 
the  squib,  the  caricature,  were  also  contained  in  the  comedy. 
And  then  there  was  pure  fun  in  it;  that  is,  fun  for  the  un- 
mixed sake  of  the  fun.  All  was  carefully  addressed  to  the 
taste  of  the  people  at  large.  This  accounts,  in  part  at  least, 
for  the  broadness  of  the  humor,  and  the  lowness  of  the  moral 
tone,  prevailing  in  Athenian  comedy.  The  audience  was  not 
select.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  the  most  miscellaneous  pos- 
sible, for  it  included  the  entire  body  of  the  citizens.  Every 
Athenian  citizen  had  a  seat  provided  for  him  in  the  theatre, 
and  it  was  an  exception  if  every  citizen  was  not  personally 
present  to  occupy  his  seat.  On  the  whole,  it  is  remarkable 
that  comedy,  religiously  wicked,  piously  profane,  like  the 
Athenian,  and  designed  to  be  strongly  pronounced  enough 
in  savor  to  satisfy  the  appetite  of  twenty  thousand  pro- 
miscuous spectators  and  auditors,  should  have  been — we 
cannot  say  so  little  unchaste,  for  more  unchaste  it  could 
hardly  have  been,  but — so  high  in  intellectual  quality  as 
it  was. 

Of  course  it  is  impossible  to  illustrate  with  example  the 
nastiness  of  Aristophanes.  And  paradoxical  though  it  be 
thought,  we  shall  have  in  candor  to  say  that  the  nastiness  is 
less  an  offense  to  the  moral,  than  it  is  to  the  aesthetic,  sense 
of  the  modern  reader.  There  is  no  allurement  to  sin  in  it. 
It  is  quite  too  frank — too  little  insidious.  Mr.  Swinburne, 
at  his  worst,  is  far  more  evil  than  at  his  worst  is  Aristoph- 


Aristophanes.  219 


anes.  Accepted  modern  operas  too  there  are,  more  truly  im- 
moral in  influence  than  are  the  scandalizingly  free  and  roys- 
tering  comedies  of  ancient  Athens.  In  inseparable  associa- 
tion of  thought  with  the  elegant  voluptuousness  of  the  court 
of  Louis  XIV.,  Burke  said  that  vice  lost  half  its  evil  by 
losing  all  its  grossness.  For  application  to  the  present  case, 
we  need  exactly  to  reverse  this  shallow  though  brilliant  rhe- 
torical sophistry  of  sentiment,  and  say,  that  vice,  in  the 
comedy  of  Aristophanes,  lost  half  its  evil  by  keeping  all  its 
grossness. 

The  political  element  in  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes,  in- 
volved as  this  is  in  personal  and  local  allusion  no  longer  intel- 
ligible, is  more  completely  beyond  modern  appreciation  than 
is  the  purely  intellectual  and  literary  element.  Creon  was  the 
favorite  butt  of  Aristophanes  the  political  satirist.  Of  Aris- 
tophanes, the  critic  and  the  wit  in  literature  and  philosophy, 
the  most  illustrious  targets  were  Euripides  and  Socrates. 
The  Frogs,  and  The  Clouds,  respectively,  name  two  comedies 
that,  being  at  the  same  time  masterpieces  of  their  author, 
retain  for  us  more  interest  than  perhaps  any  other  of  his 
works.  The  comedy  of  The  Frogs  makes  game  of  Euripides, 
while  Socrates  is  set  up  as  a  laughing-stock  in  the  comedy  of 
The  Clouds.  The  Knights  is  the  piece  which  chiefly  pays 
the  comedian's  compliments  to  Creon.  The  perfectly  frank, 
and  perfectly  transparent,  though  anonymous,  abuse  with 
which  Aristophanes  treats  his  ideal  demagogue,  may  be 
judged  from  the  following  extract.  Mr.  Frere  is  our  trans- 
lator : 

Close  around  him,  and  confound  him,  the  confounder  of  us  all ; 
Pelt  him,  pummel  him,  and  maul  him  ;  rummage,  ransack,  overhaul  him, 
Overbear  him,  and  outbawl  him  ;  bear  him  down,  and  bring  him  under. 
Bellow  like  a  burst  of  thunder.  Robber  !  harpy  !  sink  of  plunder  ! 
Rogue  and  villain  !  rogue  and  cheat !  rogue  and  villain,  I  repeat ! 
Oftener  than  I  can  repeat  it,  has  the  rogue  and  villain  cheated. 
Close  around  him,  left  and  right ;  spit  upon  him,  spurn  and  smite : 
Spit  upon  him  as  you  see  ;  spurn  and  spit  at  him  like  me. 


220  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

There  is,  by  the  way,  rarely  any  thing  in  the  nature  of  a 
plot  to  one  of  Aristophanes's  comedies.  Generally  the  play 
is  a  succession  of  scenes,  or  tableaux  vivants.  The  machinery 
employed,  the  situations  presented,  furnish  a  great  part  of 
the  amusement.  There  is  no  attempt  at  working  out,  through 
successive  stages,  a  surprising  development  to  be  sprung 
upon  you  at  the  close. 

In  The  Clouds,  Socrates  is  made  to  do  duty  as  a  representa- 
tive sophist,  and  the  sophists  are  the  object  of  the  comedian's 
ridicule.  Much  speculation  has  been  indulged  in  as  to  the 
reason  why  Aristophanes  should  have  put  Socrates  into  this 
part,  since  Socrates  was,  in  fact,  always  opposing  the  sophists. 
For  ourselves,  we  suspect  that  exactly  this  was  Aristophanes's 
reason  for  the  liberty  he  took  with  his  friend  Socrates.  It 
would  have  an  irresistibly  comic  effect  to  invert  well -under- 
stood relations  in  this  broadly  obvious  way.  The  absurdity 
of  giving  on  the  stage  the  familiar  and  naturally  almost 
comic  face  and  figure  of  Socrates  to  the  representative 
sophist — a  character  with  whom  that  philosopher  was  under- 
stood to  be  incessantly  at  war — this  would  be  a  joke  level 
to  the  capacity  of  the  least  enlightened  Athenian.  Then, 
in  Socrates  thus  represented,  to  jumble  confusedly  together 
the  function  of  the  sophist — namely,  undertaking  to  prove 
the  negative  or  the  affirmative  at  choice  of  any  proposition 
whatever,  with  the  function  of  the  true  philosopher — namely, 
seeking  truth  and  wisdom — such,  we  submit,  was  the  comic 
design  of  Aristophanes  in  this  play  of  The  Clouds.  Besides, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  there  really  was  enough,  at  times, 
of  the  true  sophist  in  Socrates  to  add  the  equivalent  necessary 
of  verisimilitude  to  the  comic  representation. 

The  opening  scene  of  The  Clouds  presents  a  bedroom  in 
which  a  father  and  a  son  are  sleeping.  The  father  waking 
tries  in  vain  to  fall  asleep  again.  Thoughts  of  pecuniary 
embarrassment  disturb  his  mind.  Bills  are  coming  due  that 
he  knows  not  how  to  meet.     His  son,  meantime,  talks  in  his 


Aristophanes.  221 


sleep  of  horses  and  races.  The  son  is  at  length  roused  by 
the  sire,  and  the  two  sally  forth  together.  The  old  gentle- 
man has  an  idea.  His  son  shall  go  to  the  "  thinking-shop  " 
of  Socrates  the  sophist,  and  there  learn  how,  by  rhetoric,  to 
evade  the  payment  of  the  paternal  debts.  But  the  graceless 
young  rascal  will  not  go.  The  father,  at  last,  is  fain  to  go 
himself.  A  student  admits  him  into  the  house.  After  a  lit- 
tle preliminary  conversation,  the  visitor  catches  sight  of  a 
human  figure  suspended  from  the  ceiling  in  a  basket.  Now 
a  bit  of  Aristophanes  in  his  own  words  : 

Stranger.  Who  hangs  dangling  in  the  basket  yonder? 
Student.  Himself. 

Str.  And  who's  himself? 

Stud.  Why,  Socrates. 

Str.  Ho,  Socrates  !    Call  him,  you  fellow — call  loud. 
Stud.  Call  him  yourself — I've  got  no  time  for  calling. 

{Exit  indoors^ 
Str.  Ho,  Socrates  !  sweet,  darling  Socrates  \ 
Soc.  Why  callest  thou  me,  poor  creature  of  a  day  ? 
Str.  First  tell  me,  pray,  what  are  you  doing  up  there  ? 
Soc.  I  walk  in  air,  and  contemplate  the  sun. 
Str.  O,  that's  the  way  that  you  despise  the  gods — 

You  get  so  near  them  on  your  perch  there — eh? 
Soc.  I  never  could  have  found  out  things  divine 
Had  I  not  hung  my  mind  up  thus  and  mixed 
My  subtle  intellect  with  its  kindred  air. 
Had  I  regarded  such  things  from  below 
I  had  learnt  nothing.     For  the  earth  absorbs 
Into  itself  the  moisture  of  the  brain — 
It  is  the  very  same  case  with  water-cresses. 
Str.  Dear  me  !  so  water-cresses  grow  by  thinking  ! 

Socrates,  having  learned  the  errand  of  his  visitor,  chants  a 
song  of  invitation  to  the  Clouds  to  descend  for  the  old  gen- 
tleman's help.  The  descent  of  the  Clouds  is  attended  with 
a  gentle  roll  of  thunder.  The  Clouds  sing  together  while 
they,  probably  still  invisible,  approach.  Their  song  is  a 
lyric  much  admired.     Mr.  Collins  in  his  volume  on  Aristoph- 


222  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

anes  (Ancient  Classics  for  English  Readers)  gives  the  follow- 
ing version  of  it : 

(chorus  of  clouds  in  the  distance^ 

Eternal  clouds  ! 

Rise  we  to  mortal  view, 
Embodied  in  bright  shapes  of  dewy  sheen, 
Leaving  the  depths  serene 
Where  our  loud-sounding  Father  Ocean  dwells. 

For  the  wood-crowned  summits  of  the  hills  : 

Thence  shall  our  glance  command 

The  beetling  crags  which  sentinel  the  land. 

The  teeming  earth, 

The  crops  we  bring  to  birth  ; 
Thence  shall  we  hear 
The  music  of  the  ever-flowing  streams, 
The  low,  deep  thunders  of  the  booming  sea. 

Lo,  the  bright  Eye  of  Day  unwearied  beams  ! 

Shedding  our  veil  of  storms 

From  our  immortal  forms, 
We  scan  with  keen-eyed  gaze  this  nether  sphere. 

Readers  of  Shelley  will  be  reminded  of  his  beautiful  and 
powerful  poem  of  "  The  Cloud."  The  Clouds,  drawing  nearer, 
sing  again,  Socrates  meantime  lying  prostrate  with  adora- 
tion, and  the  stranger  convulsed  with  comic  terror  at  the 
accompanying  thunder.  The  Clouds  "  materialize  "  as  fleecy- 
frocked  maidens,  floating  airily  in,  to  the  number  of  twenty- 
four.  The  old  gentleman  turns  out  to  be  a  poor  pupil,  and 
does  not  get  on.  The  son  is  finally  prevailed  upon  to  go  in 
place  of  his  father.  The  father  introduces  him  to  Socrates 
with  pride : 

He  was  so  very  clever  always,  naturally ; 

When  he  was  but  so  high,  now,  he'd  build  mud-houses, 

Cut  out  a  boat,  make  a  cart  of  an  old  shoe, 

And  frogs  out  of  pomegranate-stones — quite  wonderful ! 

We  are  bound  to  say  that  in  the  passage  following,  descrip- 
tive of  the  discipline  through  which  the  young  man  goes, 


Aristophanes.  223 


there  is  something  to  inspire  one's  respect.  The  Just  Argu- 
ment and  the  Unjust  are  personified  and  impersonated  on 
the  stage.  It  is  a  kind  of  Aristophanic  version  of  the  sophist 
Prod'i-cus's  noble  allegory  of  the  "  Choice  of  Heracles." 
The  two  Arguments  dispute.  The  Just  Argument  holds 
language  like  this : 

Cast  in  thy  lot,  O  youth,  with  me,  and  choose  the  better  paths — 
So  shalt  thou  hate  the  Forum's  prate,  and  shun  the  lazy  baths  ; 
Be  shamed  for  what  is  truly  shame,  and  blush  when  shame  is  said. 
And  rise  up  from  thy  seat  in  hall  before  the  hoary  head ; 
Be  duteous  to  thy  parents,  to  no  base  act  inclined, 
But  keep  fair  Honor's  image  deep  within  thine  heart  enshrined ; 
And  speak  no  rude,  irreverent  word  against  the  father's  years, 
Whose  strong  hand  led  thine  infant  steps  and  dried  thy  childhood's 
tears. 

But  the  Unjust  Argument  answers  and  prevails.  Here  is  a 
specimen  of  the  Aristophanico-Socratic  style  in  which  the 
dialogue  is  carried  forward  : 

Unjust  A.  Come,  now,  from  what  class  do  our  lawyers  spring? 
Just  A.  Well — from  the  blackguards. 
Unj.  A.  I  believe  you.     Tell  me 

Again,  what  are  our  tragic  poets? 
yust  A.  Blackguards. 

Unj.  A.  Good  ;  and  our  public  orators  ? 
Just  A.  Blackguards  all. 

Unj.  A.  D'ye  see  now,  how  absurd  and  utterly  worthless 

Your  arguments  have  been  ?     And  now  look  round — 
(Jurning  to  the  audience) 

Which  class  amongst  our  friends  here  seems  most  numerous? 
yust  A.  I'm  looking. 

Unj.  A.  Well,  now  tell  me  what  you  see. 

yust.  A.  {after  gravely  and  attentively  examining  the  rows  of  spectators) 

The  blackguards  have  it,  by  a  large  majority. 

There's  one,  I  know — and  yonder  there's  another — 

And  there,  again,  that  fellow  with  long  hair. 

'Of  course  such  buffoonery  would  bring  down  the  house. 
The  Just  Argument  throws   up  the  case.     The  son  is  now 


224  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

crammed  for  his  contest  with  the  father's  creditors.  He 
easily  beats  them  all  out  of  court.  But  the  father's  delight  is 
seriously  modified  when  his  son  makes  an  unexpected  use  of 
his  new  accomplishment.  The  hopeful  youth  thrashes  his 
own  father,  and  proceeds  with  easy  volubility  to  justify  him- 
self in  the  act.  The  aggrieved  parent  seeks  his  revenge  on 
Socrates  and  the  Clouds.  Taking  with  him  his  slaves,  he 
carries  the  torch  to  the  "  thinking-shop."  The  incendiary  old 
gentleman,  perched  on  his  ladder,  to  the  students  asking 
him  what  he  is  about  there,  replies  : 

Holding  a  subtle  disputation  with  the  rafters. 

And    Socrates    himself,  at  length  aroused  by  the  noise,  is, 

with  a  retort  turned  upon  himself  of  his  own  explanation  as 

to  his  situation  in  the  hanging-basket,  told  by  the  sarcastic 

father : 

I  walk  in  air  and  contemplate  the  sun. 

Mr.  Browning  in  his  "  Aristophanes'  Apology  "  has  a  long 
passage  descriptive  of  an  imaginary,  though  entirely  veri- 
similar, visit  of  the  comedian  made,  under  privilege  of  the 
Dionysiac  or  Bacchic  festival,  to  the  house  of  Balaustion. 
He  comes  a  drunken  reveler — and  now  is  introduced  by  the 
way  a  striking,  but  not  strikingly  luminous,  portrait  in  words 
of  the  man  as  he  is  supposed  by  the  English  poet  to  appear 
on  the  occasion.  We  refer  curious  readers  to  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's volume,  and  therewith,  rendering  to  the  Grecian's 
genius  a  homage  qualified  with  sorrow,  more  than  with  blame, 
for  the  use  that  he  made  of  his  genius,  we  bow  Aristophanes 
out  of  presence.  He  is  eminently  an  author  to  be  studied 
less  for  delight,  than  for  melancholy  instruction  on  the  state 
of  morals  and  of  manners  prevalent  in  the  most  polished 
nation  of  the  ancient  pagan  world. 

We  were  letting  Aristophanes  go  ;  but,  stay,  he  shall,  before 
going,  sing  for  us  one  pretty  song  of  his  own  from  the  comedy 
of  The  Birds.     Dr.  Howard  Crosby,  an  accomplished  Greek 


Aristophanes.  225 


scholar,  and,  as  our  readers  will  see,  a  poet,  has  kindly  fur- 
nished us  a  version  of  the  song — in  the  English  words  of 
which  the  Athenian  singer  will  be  understood  and  appreci- 
ated : 

Muse  of  the  bushy  haunt, 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  ! 
That  on  the  valley's  breast, 
Or  on  the  mountain's  crest, 
So  versatile,  art  wont 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo ! 
With  me  the  echoes  to  arouse, 
Seated  among  the  ashen  boughs, 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo ! 
With  active  throat 
I  wake  my  note 

Of  holy  song  to  Pan's  high  praise, 
Or  Rhea  else  receives  my  lays, 

Tu-tu,  tu-tu,  tu-tu,  tu-whoo  ! 
As  the  bee  that  tastes  the  flower 
Songful  makes  the  busy  hour. 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo ! 
Such  is  the  mingled  song, 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo ! 
The  swans  with  moving  wing 
To  great  Apollo  sing 
The  bending  reeds  among, 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo 
Upon  the  banks  so  fair  and  green 
Where  shining  Hebrus  flows  between, 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  ! 
Through  air  the  song 
Is  borne  along ; 

The  beasts  are  silent  as  the  grave, 
Nor  breathing  winds  disturb  the  wave, 

Tu-tu,  tu-tu,  tu-tu,  tu-whoo  ! 
Pleasing  Heav'n,  it  kings  confuses, — 
Grieves  the  Graces  and  the  Muses, 

Tu-whit,  tu-whit,  tu-whoo ! 
10* 


226 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


IX. 

PINDAR, 

SAPPHO,    SIMONIDES. 

Homer  is  not  more  unquestionably  first  in  fame  among 
the  epic  poets  of  antiquity  than 
among  ancient  lyric  poets  is  Pin- 
dar. Something  beyond  even  this 
may  be  said.  Pindar's  renown  is 
perhaps  more  solitary  in  its  su- 
premacy than  is  even  the  renown 
of  Homer.  Homer  has  been  fol- 
lowed by  Virgil,  Dante,  Milton, 
who  vie  with  him  in  glory  as  epic 
poets.  But  there  is  no  fellow  to 
Pindar,  in  any  race  or  any  age, 
to  divide  with  him  the  throne  of 
empire  in  lyric  song.  It  was  true, 
and  it  remains  true,  what  Gray 
PINDAR.  sang  of  Pindar   as   "  the  Theban 

Eagle  " 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air. 

Pindar  was  of  Thebes  in  Boeotia,  a  country  celebrated  in 
proverb  for  the  mental  dullness  of  its  inhabitants.  Pin- 
dar may  fairly  be  judged  to  take  away  that  reproach.  He 
flourished  during  perhaps  three  quarters  of  a  century,  from 
about  522  B.  C.  He  was  of  aristocratic  blood,  and  he  was 
aristocratic  in  feeling.  Little  is  known  of  his  life.  There 
is  a  tradition,  which  one  likes  to  believe  trustworthy,  that 
he  had  a  Theban  countrywoman,  Co-rin'na,  who  fairly  beat 
him  in  a  poetical  contest  waged  between  the  two  when  he 


Pindar.  227 


was  young.  Afterward,  so  the  legend  goes  on,  he  brought 
her  a  poem  of  his,  sown  thick  with  Theban  mythology.  She 
had  herself  advised  this  resource  to  the  ambitious  young  poet ; 
but,  "  You  should  sow  with  the  hand,  not  with  the  sack,"  was 
her  criticism  on  his  over-profusion.  Tennyson  alludes  in 
The  Princess  to  "  fair  Corinna's  triumph." 

Pindar  was  the  most  fortunate  of  poets.  Popular  every- 
where, he  was  also  the  pet  of  noblemen  and  princes.  His 
poetry  was  all  occasional,  that  is,  written  for  occasions,  and 
it  was  written  to  order  for  hire.  The  most  of  what  remains 
consists  of  triumphal  odes  celebrating  victories  won  in  the 
great  national  games  of  Greece.  These  odes  are  divided, 
somewhat  arbitrarily,  into  four  classes,  named  respectively, 
Olympian,  Pythian,  Isthmian,  Nemaean,  from  the  different  local 
names  given  to  the  Grecian  games  of  chief  celebrity.  The 
ode  would  be  rendered  either  on  the  occasion  itself  of  the 
victory,  or  afterward,  perhaps  on  the  return  of  the  victor  to 
his  native  city.  It  was  accompanied  with  music  and  with 
choral  dance.  With  the  irreparable  loss  of  these  accompa- 
niments to  the  poetry,  and  with  the  equally  irreparable,  and 
still  greater,  loss  of  the  circumstance  and  sentiment  that 
decorated  and  inspired  the  original  occasion — with  the  loss, 
we  say,  of  these  things,  the  bloom  of  the  splendor  of  Pindar's 
verse  has  irrecoverably  faded.  There  has  passed  away  a 
glory  from  the  earth. 

Pindar  had  the  audacity  of  genius.  He  shrank  from 
nothing  arduous  or  dangerous  that  tempted  him.  He  soared 
— but  it  was  not  with  the  wing  of  Ic'a-rus — into  the  region 
of  the  sun.  His  figures  are  bold  to  the  verge  of  the  incon- 
ceivable. This  makes  him  a  very  difficult  writer  to  translate. 
The  English  poet,  Cowley,  who  made  some  odes  that  he 
called  Pindaric,  said,  about  doing  Pindar  into  English,  that, 
to  render  him  literally,  would  make  the  public  cry  out,  It  is 
one  madman  translating  another.  Pindar  is  not  often  read 
in  the  ordinary  college  course. 


228  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

There  is  a  whole  library  of  English  Pindaric  translation 
in  prose  and  verse.  The  version  most  praised  by  the  best 
judges  is  that  of  H.  F.  Gary,  the  translator  of  Dante.  This 
version  is  in  metre.     We  shall  present  a  specimen  or  two. 

First,  however,  by  example  from  another  source,  we  wish 
to  give  our  readers  an  idea  of  Pindar's  dithyrambics.  These 
constitute  a  wild,  stormy,  tumultuous  metre,  in  which  we 
have  Only  fragments  remaining  from  the  lyre  of  Pindar. 
Mr.  H.  N.  Coleridge,  nephew  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 
the  poet,  translated  a  dithyrambic  fragment  of  our  author, 
in  the  course  of  an  admirable  paper  of  his,  appreciating  Mr. 
Cary's  version  of  Pindar,  originally  published  some  fifty  years 
ago  in  the  Quarterly  Review.  This  fragment  is  an  almost 
presumptuous  ode  of  address  to  the  Olympian  divinities, 
inviting  them  to  descend  to  the  worship  of  men.  Pindar,  by 
the  way,  is  reckoned  one  of  the  most  sincerely  devout  relig- 
ionists of  the  classic  pagan  world.  Here  is  the  fragment,  as 
rendered  by  Mr.  Coleridge  : 

Down  to  our  dance,  gods  ! 
Come  down  from  Olympus — 
Hither  descend ! 
Glory  o'er  Athens  and  joyance  bestowing, 
O  light,  as  ye  wont,  in  the  forum  o'erflowing, 
"Where  the  crowds,  and  the  chorus,  and  sacrifice  blend ! 
Lo,  they  come  !     Now  the  violet-coronals  bring, 
And  pure  honey  dew-drops 
Fresh  gather'd  in  spring. 

See  me  advancing 
Under  Jove's  guidance 
Singing  divine ! — 
*Tis  the  ivy-clad  Boy  ! — God  Bromius  we  name  him; 
With  a  cry  and  a  shout  Eriboas  we  claim  him  ! 
O  !  begotten  of  mother  of  old  Cadmus'  line 
In  the  mighty  embrace  of  omnipotent  sire — 
I  come  from  afar  off 

To  lead  thy  bright  quire ! 


Pindar.  229 


For  the  new  palm-bud 
Caught  glance  from  the  prophet 
Of  Nemea's  strand; 
When  the  nectarous  plants  felt  the  spring-tide  sweet-smelling, 
What  time  the  young  hours  oped  the  ports  of  their  dwelling  ! 
Now  the  violet  blooms  are  chance-flung  on  the  land, 
And  the  rose  and  the  rose-leaf  are  wreath'd  in  the  hair, 
And  voices  and  pipings 
Ring  loud  in  the  air  ! 

S.  T.  Coleridge  has  a  "  Visit  of  the  Gods  :  Imitated  from 
Schiller,"  with  which  the  foregoing  may  be  compared.  Of 
both  Schiller  and  Coleridge  Pindar  is  the  original. 

We  next  give,  using  Cary's  version,  Pindar's  celebrated 
hymn  to  the  Graces.     A  ''  soft  Lydian  air  "  the  poem  is ; 

O  ye,  ordained  by  lot  to  dwell 
Where  Cephisian  waters  well ; 
And  hold  your  fair  retreat 
'Mid  herd  of  coursers  beautiful  and  fleet, 
Renowned  queens,  that  take  your  rest 
In  Orchomenus  the  blest, 
Guarding  with  ever-wakeful  eye 
The  Minyans'  high-bom  progeny  ; — 
To  you  my  votive  strains  belong : 
List,  Graces,  to  your  suppliant's  song ! 
For  all  delightful  things  below. 
All  sweet,  to  you  their  being  owe ; 
And  at  your  hand  their  blessings  share 
The  wise,  the  splendid,  and  the  fair. 

Nor  without  the  holy  Graces, 
The  gods,  in  those  supernal  places, 
Their  dances  or  their  banquets  rule  : 
Dispensers  they  of  all  above, 
Throughout  the  glorious  court  of  Jove ; 
Where  each  has  placed  her  sacred  stool 
By  the  golden-bow'd  Apollo, 
Whom  in  his  harpings  clear  they  follow ; 
And  the  high  majestic  state 
Of  their  Eternal  Father  venerate. 


230  College  Greek  Course  in  English.  \ 

Daughters  of  heaven  ; — Aglaia,  thou,  ; 

Darting  splendors  from  thy  brow  ;  ' 

"With  musical  Euphrosyne, —  i 

Be  present.     Nor  less  call  I  thee,  \\ 

Tuneful  Thalia,  to  look  down  ' 

On  the  joyous  rout,  and  own  : 

Me  their  bard,  who  lead  along,  ^ 

For  Asopichus  the  throng  J 
Tripping  light  to  Lydian  song  ; 

And  Minya  for  thy  sake  proclaim  i 
Conqueress  in  the  Olympic  game. 

Waft,  Echo,  now  thy  wing  divine  *; 

To  the  black  dome  of  Proseipine  ;  I 

And  marking  Cleodamus  there,  • 

Tell  the  glad  tidings  ; — how  his  son,  ; 

For  him,  hath  crown'd  his  youthful  hair  : 
"With  plumes  in  Pisa's  valley  won. 

With  the   dallying,  long-lingering  spirit  of  the  foregoing 
strain,  is  sharply  contrasted  the  swift  sweep  of  the  following 
lyric  description  of  Bel-ler'o-phon's  adventure  with  the  celes- 
tial winged  steed  Peg'a-sus.   This  passage  occurs  in  the  course  ] 
of  a  triumphal  ode,     Pindar's  habitual  method  was  to  associ- 
ate some  suitable  bit  of  mythology  with  his  subject.     In  this  | 
way  he  secured  variety  of  material  for  his  various  occasions.           \ 
In  the  present  case  silence  concerning  the  final  fate  of  Bel-          \ 
lerophon  was  dictated  to  the  poet  by  his  object.     We  use          \ 
Gary  again  as  translator  :                                                                          I 

Straight  to  the  wingM  steed  rushed  on. 

With  sturdy  step,  Bellerophon  ;  \ 

And  seizing,  to  his  cheek  applied  j 

The  charm  that  sooth'd  his  swelling  pride.  ; 

Them  soon  the  azure  depths  enfold  > 

Of  ether  waste  and  cold  ;  j 

Whence  leveling  his  aim,  j 

The  Amazonian  crew,  ; 

And  Chimaera  breathing  flame,  \ 
And  the  Solymi  he  slew. 

1 

i 


Pindar.  231 


His  final  doom  in  silence  past 
Shall  be  by  me  conceal'd. 
The  ancient  stalls  of  Jove  at  last 
The  courser,  in  Olympus,  held. 

The  first  Pythian  ode  is  one  of  the  series  inscribed  to  Pin- 
dar's royal  patron,  Hi'e-ro  of  Syracuse,  who  had  condescended 
to  be  a  victor  in  a  chariot-race.  But  in  truth  to  contend  in 
the  Pythian  games  was  rather  a  presumption  than  a  conde- 
scension, even  on  the  part  of  a  king.  It  is  impossible  to 
exaggerate  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the  games  of  Greece 
were  resorted  to  by  competitors  and  spectators.  To  be 
crowned  conqueror  in  one  of  the  contests,  not  only  was 
glorious  for  the  conqueror  himself,  but  the  state  or  city  to 
which  the  conqueror  belonged  was  deemed  to  be  glorified  in 
the  glory  of  her  citizen.  The  present  ode  is  long  and  elabo- 
rate.    Gary : 

O  thou,  whom  Phoebus  and  the  quire 

Of  violet-tressM  Muses  own, 

Their  joint  treasure,  golden  Lyre, 

Ruling  step  with  warbled  tone, 

Prelude  sweet  to  festive  pleasures  ; 

Minstrels  hail  thy  sprightly  measures 

Soon  as  shook  from  quivering  strings, 

Leading  the  choral  bands,  thy  loud  preamble  rings. 

In  the  mazes,  steep'd,  expire 

Bolts  of  ever-flowing  fire. 

Jove's  eagle  on  the  sceptre  slumbers, 

Possess'd  by  thy  enchanting  numbers 

On  either  side,  his  rapid  wing, 

Drops,  entranc'd,  the  feather'd  king  ; 

Black  vapor  o'er  his  curved  head. 

Sealing  his  eyelids,  sweetly  shed  ; 

Upheaving  his  moist  back  he  lies 

Held  down  with  thrilling  harmonies. 

Mars  the  rough  lance  has  laid  apart, 

And  yields  to  song  his  stormy  heart. 

No  god  but  of  his  mood  disarm'd. 

Is  with  thy  tuneful  weapons  charm'd  ; 


232  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

Soon  as  Latona's  sapient  son 

And  deep-zon'd  Muses  have  their  lays  begun. 

But  whomsoever  Jove 

Hath  look'd  on  without  love, 

Are  anguish'd  when  they  hear  the  voiceful  sound  ; 

"Whether  on  land  they  be, 

Or  in  the  raging  sea  ; 

With  him,  outstretched  on  dread  Tartarian  bound. 

Hundred-headed  Typhon ;  erst 

In  famed  Cilicia's  cavern  nurst ; 

Foe  of  the  Gods  ;  whose  shaggy  breast, 

By  Cuma's  sea-beat  mound,  is  prest ; 

Pent  by  plains  of  Sicily, 

And  that  snow'd  pillar  heavenly  high, 

iEtna,  nurse  of  ceaseless  frost ; 

From  whose  cavern'd  depths  aspire, 

In  purest  folds  upwreathing,  tost, 

Fountains  of  approachless  fire. 

By  day,  a  flood  of  smoldering  smoke, 

With  sullen  gleam,  the  torrents  pour  ; 

But  in  darkness,  many  a  rock, 

Crimson  flame,  along  the  shore. 

Hurls  to  the  deep  with  deaf 'ning  roar. 

From  that  Worm,  aloft  are  thrown 

The  wells  of  Vulcan,  full  of  fear  ; 

A  marvel  strange  to  look  upon  ; 

And,  for  the  passing  mariner. 

As  marvelous  to  hear  ; 

How  Etna's  top  with  umbrage  black, 

And  soil,  do  hold  him  bound  ; 

And  by  that  pallet,  all  his  back 

Is  scored  with  many  a  wound. 

Intent  this  man  to  praise, 
I  trust  to  whirl  my  javelin,  brazen-tipt. 
Not  out  of  limit,  yet  that  all  who  raise 
A  rival  arm,  shall  be  by  far  outstript 

At  close  of  glory's  boastful  day, 
Sure  as  the  mighty  pass  away. 
To  point  their  lives,  alone  remain 
Recording  tale  and  poet's  strain. 


Pindai'.  233 


Fades  not  the  worth  of  Croesus  mild  : 
But  Phalaris,  with  blood  defil'd. 
His  brazen  bull,  his  torturing  flame, 
Hand  o'er  alike  to  evil  fame 
In  every  clime.     No  tuneful  string, 
No  voice,  that  makes  the  rafters  ring. 
Receive  his  name,  in  hall  or  bower, 
"When  youth  and  joyance  wing  the  hour 

First  prize  to  mortals,  good  success ; 
Next  portion,  good  renown  ; 
Whomever  both  conspire  to  bless. 
He  wins  the  highest  crown. 

Thomas  Gray's  fine  lyric,  The  Progress  of  Poesy,  by 
him  expressly  entitled  A  Pindaric  Ode,  is  worthy  of  being 
studied,  as  at  least  giving  something  of  the  form,  if  kindled 
with  little  of  the  fire,  of  Pindar. 

With  a  few  sentences  extracted  from  what  Mr.  H.  N.  Cole- 
ridge, in  his  article  already  mentioned  in  the  Quarterly 
Review,  has  to  say  in  general  of  Pindar  and  Pindar's  poetry, 
we  bring  our  necessarily  brief  presentation  of  Pindar  to  a 
close.     Mr.  Coleridge  says : 

"  We  never  knew  any  scholar  indifferent  about  Pindar. 
Either  you  love  and  venerate  him — you  carry  him,  as  the  no- 
ble Romana  did,  in  your  pocket — or  you  cannot  away  with 
him  at  all.     There  is  no  medium. 

"  Pindar  was  no  David,  no  ^schylus,  no  Milton  ;  and, 
with  Dante's  power,  he  would  have  abhorred  Dante's  sub- 
ject. But  such  as  he  was,  he  stood,  and  he  stands,  aloft  and 
aloof —  unsurpassable  —  inimitable  —  incomparable ;  not  the 
very  greatest  or  the  most  affecting  of  poets,  in  a  universal 
sense — but  the  one  permitted  instance  of  perfection  in  his 
own  arduous,  although  particular,  line — the  absolute  master 
of  lyric  song." 

If  we  seem  by  our  order  of  treatment  to  make  Sappho  a 


234  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

sort  of  pendant  to  Pindar,  that  is  not  to  imply  on  her  part 
either  posteriority  in  time  or  inferiority  in  genius.  Sappho, 
in  fact,  preceded  Pindar  by  two  generations,  and  her  tradi- 
tion is  that  of  a  poetical  genius  perhaps  even  surpassing 
him.  A  Tenth  Muse,  Plato  calls  her,  and  she  remains  to  this 
day  in  general  estimation  among  those  entitled  to  adjudge 
her  just  rank,  from  the  various  trustworthy  indications  that  sur- 
vive, the  foremost  woman  of  genius  in  the  world.  The  loss 
of  her  poems  is  probably  the  greatest  loss  that  the  literatuie 
of  mankind  ever  suffered. 

The  familiar  lines  of  Byron,  (Lesbos  was  Sappho's  native 

island,) 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 

hint  very  well  what,  until  lately,  was  the  universal  impression 
respecting  the  personality  of  Sappho.  It  is  grateful  now  to 
think  that  common  fame  has  done  this 
woman  wrong,  and  that  nothing  worthy 
of  credence  exists  in  the  way  of  testi- 
mony to  attaint  the  purity  of  her  char- 
acter. Mr.  T.  W.  Higginson,  in  a  most 
admirable  paper  published  in  the  Atlan- 
tic Monthly  for  July,  187 1,  came  hand- 
somely forward,  like  the  literary  knight 
that  he  is,  to  vindicate  her  name  before  an 
audience  more  remote,  more  numerous,  as  certainly  other  far, 
than  ever  the  poet  herself  could  have  dreamed,  here  in 
America.  Mr.  Higginson  in  this  motion  followed  an  initi- 
ative supplied  by  the  German  scholar  Welcker.  We,  for  our 
part,  are  going  to  believe  that  Sappho  was  a  true  woman  as 
well  as  a  great  poet.  We  advise  our  readers  to  take  their 
comfort  in  like  belief. 

Only  one  complete  poem  has  come  down  to  us  from  Sap- 
pho. There  are  various  fragments  preserved  here  and  there, 
in  critical  literature,  like  the  Rhetoric  of  Aristotle  or  the 


Sappho.  235 


treatise  of  Longinus  on  the  Sublime.  One  of  these  frag- 
ments Byron  has  taken  up,  and  given  it  a  rich  "  sea-change  " 
in  sympathetic  verse  of  his  own  : 

O,  Hesperus  !  thou  bringest  all  good  things  ; 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer ; 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings  ; 

The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'er-labored  steer ; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 

Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 
Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast 

The  one  surviving  complete  poem  of  Sappho's  is  her  Hymn 
to  Aphrodite.  This  is  written  in  a  peculiar  stanza,  called, 
from  the  name  of  the  author,  the  Sapphic  stanza.  It  is  not 
an  easy  metre  to  write  in  English,  especially  under  the  con- 
straint imposed  by  the  necessities  of  translation.  But  Mr. 
Higginson  has  succeeded  in  making  what  seems  to  us  a  fine 
echo  at  once  of  sound  and  of  sense,  in  the  following  Sapphic 
stanzas  of  English  translation  for  the  one  precious  whole 
production  spared  to  us  by  time  and  chance  from  the  genius  of 

Sappho: 

Beautiful-throned,  immortal  Aphrodite ! 
Daughter  of  Zeus,  beguiler,  I  implore  thee, 
Weigh  me  not  down  with  weariness  and  anguish, 

0  thou  most  holy ! 

Come  to  me  now  !  if  ever  thou  in  kindness 
Harkenedst  my  words, — and  often  hast  thou  barkened. 
Heeding,  and  coming  from  the  mansion  golden 

Of  thy  great  Father, 

Yoking  thy  chariot  borne  by  thy  most  lovely 
Consecrated  birds,  with  dusky-tinted  pinions. 
Wafting  swift  wings  from  utmost  heights  of  heaven 

Through  the  mid-ether ; 

Swiftly  they  vanished,  leaving  thee,  O  goddess. 
Smiling,  with  face  immortal  in  its  beauty. 
Asking  why  I  grieved,  and  why  in  utter  longing 

1  had  dared  call  thee ; 


236  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


Asking  what  I  sought,  thus  hopeless  in  desiring, 
'Wildered  in  brain,  and  spreading  nets  of  passion 
Alas,  for  whom  ?  and  saidst  thou,  "  Who  has  harmed  thee  ? 
O  my  poor  Sappho  ! 

*'  Though  now  he  flies,  ere  long  he  shall  pursue  thee ; 
Fearing  thy  gifts,  he  too  in  turn  shall  bring  them  ; 
Loveless  to-day,  to  morrow  he  shall  woo  thee. 

Though  thou  shouldst  spurn  him." 

Thus  seek  me  now,  O  holy  Aphrodite  ! 
Save  me  from  anguish,  give  me  all  I  ask  for, 
Gifts  at  thy  hand  ;  and  thine  shall  be  the  glory, 
Sacred  protector ! 

The  poet  Alcseus  was  a  contemporary  and  an  acquaintance 
of  Sappho's.  Here  is  a  fragment  of  address  and  reply  ex- 
changed between  the  poet  and  the  poetess,  which  the  pro- 
digious learning,  industry,  and  zeal  of  the  German  scholar 
Bergk,  in  his  work  on  the  lyric  poets  of  Greece,  has  rescued 
for  us  from  the  scattered  remains  of  ancient  Greek  literature. 
We  use  the  translation  supplied  by  Mr.  Symonds ;  Alcaeus 
says: 

Violet-crowned,  pure,  sweet-smiling  Sappho !  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing, but  shame  prevents  me. 

Sappho  replies : 

If  thy  wishes  were  fair  and  noble,  and  thy  tongue  designed  not  to 
utter  what  is  base,  shame  would  not  cloud  thine  eyes,  but  thou  wouldst 
speak  thy  just  desires. 

This  is  all  we  have  of  their  own  to  build  on  against  the 
twain  in  their  mutual  relation.  Let  us  no  longer  believe 
that  any  thing  dishonorable,  at  least  to  the  woman,  is  to  be 
read  into  these  few  words.  Sappho  wrote  in  the  -^olic  dia- 
lect. Pindar  chiefly  in  the  Doric.  The  two  respectively  may 
be  taken  to  exemplify  the  distinction  alluded  to  by  Milton 

in  his  line, 

iEolian  charms  and  Dorian  lyrick  odes. 


Simonides.  237 


Si-mon'i-des,  too,  was  an  earlier  poet  than  Pindar,  but  he 
survives  only  in  a  few  fragments,  or  else  in  very  brief  epi- 
grams. He  was,  like  Pindar,  a  hireling  poet,  in  the  sense  of 
being  at  the  service  of  such  patrons  as  were  willing  to  sub- 
sidize his  muse.  In  other  words,  he  was  poet-laureate,  not, 
like  Lord  Tennyson,  on  a  royal  yearly  stipend,  but,  as  the 
commercial  phrase  is,  by  the  job.  If  we  may  trust  Aristotle, 
he  was,  upon  occasion,  spirited  as  to  the  price  for  which  he 
would  work.  Asked  once  to  celebrate  in  verse  the  triumph 
of  mules  in  a  race,  he  refused,  alleging  for  ground,  that  to  sing 
of  "half-asses"  would  disgrace  his  lyre.  The  inducement 
was  increased,  and  Simonides,  bethinking  himself  now  that 
mules,  if  they  were  offspring  of  asses,  were  also  offspring  of 
horses,  accepted  the  task  proposed  and  burst  out  with  mag- 
nificent well-paid-for  poetical  enthusiasm,  "  Daughters  of 
tempest-footed  steeds !  "  Your  point  of  view  is  a  great 
matter  in  the  art  of  putting  things !  One  must  not  lightly 
think  too  ill  of  the  poet-laureate  that  may  be  hired.  Words- 
worth did  not  scruple  to  ennoble  this  poet  by  describing 
him  as  "pure  Simonides." 

The  fame  of  Simonides  rests  chiefly  on  his  epigrams.  *  Epi- 
gram,' as  thus  used,  must  be  understood  to  mean  a  short 
piece,  probably  of  verse,  designed  for  an  inscription.  Mil- 
tiades  is  said  to  have  erected  a  statue  of  the  god  Pan,  in 
commemoration  of  this  Arcadian  divinity's  supposed  inter- 
vention on  behalf  of  the  Greeks  against  the  Medo-Persians 
during  the  invasion  under  Darius.  Mark  the  fitness,  sim- 
plicity, density,  fullness,  with  which  the  following  epigram 
on  the  statue  tells  the  whole  story.  The  traits  specified  are 
very  well  reproduced  in  the  translation  : 

Me,  goat-foot  Pan,  the  Arcad — the  Medes'  fear, 
The  Athenians'  friend — Miltiades  placed  here. 

The  most  celebrated,  perhaps,  of  all  the  epigrams  of  Si- 
monides is  that  on  the  Spartan  Three  Hundred  who  fell  at 


238 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


Thermopylae. 
Mr.  Bowles : 


It  is  thus  fitly  and  felicitously  rendered  by 


Go  tell  the  Spartans,  thou  that  passest  by, 
That  here,  obedient  to  their  laws,  we  He. 

These  epigrammatic  poems  are  not  what  one  would  call 
brilliant.  Their  merit  is  their  severe  simplicity.  They  grow 
upon  one  in  power,  according  as  they  grow  in  familiarity. 
This  is  exactly  what  should  be  the  case  with  them.  They 
would  not  else  be  suited  to  their  purpose. 

The  Simonides  of  whom  we  have  now  been  speaking  is  Si- 
monides  of  Ceos.  There  was  another  poet  having  the  same 
name,  but  of  far  inferior  repute,  Simonides  of  A-mor'gus. 

With  predecessors  like  Sappho  and  Simonides,  Pindar 
must  owe  it  as  much  to  his  fortune  as  to  his  merit,  that  he 
stands  apart  and  alone  in  his  superior  fame.  It  is,  perhaps, 
an  instance  of  the  survival  less  of  the  fittest,  than  of  the  most 
fortunate. 


ALC.£T7S  AND  SAPPHO. 


Bion.  239 


X. 
THEOCRITUS, 

BION,     MOSCHUS. 

Theocritus  is  the  great  name  in  Greek  idyllic  poetry. 
With  Theocritus  are  associated,  in  a  kind  of 
parasitic  renown,  two  other  Greek  pastoral 
poets,  Bion,  of  country  unknown — perhaps 
Smyrna — and  Moschus,  supposed  of  Syra- 
cuse. These  two  are  chiefly  celebrated  as 
authors  of  elegies  that  not  only  are  fine  in 
■«*--.— ^«;^«5xy  themselves,  but  are  noteworthy  for  being 
^  ^-  /  originals  of  elegiac  odes  in  English  not  sur- 
THEocRiTus.  passcd  in  beauty  and  power  by  any  minor 
poems  in  the  language.  We  refer  to  Milton's  Lycidas  and 
Shelley's  Adonais.  The  latter  poems  are  modeled,  not  at  all 
in  servile  imitation,  but  simply  in  elegant  reminiscence  and 
allusion,  upon  Bion's  Lament  for  Adonis,  and  Moschus's  still 
more  famous  Lament  for  Bion. 

The  two  disciples  and  followers  of  Theocritus — Bion  and 
Moschus — are  less  simple,  less  natural,  less  genuine,  as  well 
as  less  vigorous,  than  their  master.  We  begin  by  presenting 
them  in  a  few  specimen  extracts  out  of  the  two  poems  just 
mentioned  from  their  hands.  We  shall  then  feel  released  in 
mind  and  free  to  allot  the  larger  space  that  we  have  planned 
to  the  earlier,  the  more  original,  the  greater  poet.  Of  Bion 
and  Moschus,  the  men,  we  know  literally  nothing — unless 
as  to  Bion,  Moschus's  elegy  on  his  friend  be  taken  to  afford 
a  trace,  faint  indeed,  of  biographic  information.  Here  are 
a  few  stanzas  from  Bion's  elegy,  entitled  The  Epitaph  of 
Adonis.  The  translator  is  Mr.  J.  M.  Chapman.  Readers 
familiar  with  Shelley's  Adonais  will  feel  that  Mr.  Chapman 


24©  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

must  have  been  powerfully  influenced  by  poetic  and  artistic 
sympathy  with  that  marvelously  beautiful  poem,  when  he 
executed,  in  the  same  stanza  and  in  strongly  resembling 
rhythm,  this  fine  version  of  Bion's  elegy : 

I  and  the  Loves  Adonis  dead  deplore : 
The  beautiful  Adonis  is  indeed 
Departed,  parted  from  us.     Sleep  no  more 
In  purple,  Cypris  !  but  in  watchet  weed. 
All- wretched  !  beat  thy  breast  and  all  aread— 
"  Adonis  is  no  more."     The  Loves  and  I 
Lament  him.     O  !  her  grief  to  see  him  bleed, 
Smitten  by  white  tooth  on  his  whiter  thigh. 
Out-breathing  life's  faint  sugh  upon  the  mountain  high  I 

*'  Alas  for  Cypris  ! "  sigh  the  Loves,  "  deprived 
Of  her  fair  spouse,  she  lost  her  beauty's  pride  ; 
Cypris  was  lovely  whilst  Adonis  lived. 
But  with  Adonis  all  her  beauty  died." 
Mountains,  and  oaks,  and  streams,  that  broadly  glide, 
Or  wail  or  weep  for  her  ;  in  tearful  rills 
For  her  gush  fountains  from  the  mountain  side  ; 
Redden  the  flowers  from  grief ;  city  and  hills 
With  ditties  sadly  wild,  lorn  Cytherea  fills. 

Their  curls  are  shorn  :  one  breaks  his  bow ;  another 
His  arrows  and  the  quiver  ;  this  unstrings, 
And  takes  Adonis'  sandal  off ;  his  brother 
In  golden  urn  the  fountain  water  brings  ; 
This  bathes  his  thighs  ;  that  fans  him  with  his  wings. 
The  Loves,  "  Alas  for  Cypris  !  "  weeping  say : 
Hymen  hath  quenched  his  torches  ;  shreds  and  flings 
The  marriage  wreath  away  ;  and  for  the  lay 
Of  Love  is  only  heard  the  doleful  "  weal-away." 

Students  of  Milton  will  be  reminded  of  that  deliciously 
musical  passage  in  the  Paradise  Lost  allusive  to  the  poetic 
legend  and  ritual  of  Adonis  (Thammuz  :) 

Thammuz  came  next  behind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 


Moschus.  24.1 


The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties,  all  a  summer's  day ; 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple  to  the  sea,  supposed  with  blood 
Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded. 

We  shall  hear  more,  from  Theocritus,  of  the  theme  of  Adonis. 
Now  the  lament  for  Bion  by  Moschus.  The  title  is,  The 
Epitaph  of  Bion,  a  Loving  Herdsman.  This  also  Mr. 
Chapman  translates  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  but  we  prefer 
the  excellent  prose  translation  of  Mr.  Banks — if  for  no  other 
reason,  at  least  for  this,  that  Mr.  Banks  gives  us,  as  in  verse 
Mr.  Chapman  could  with  difficulty  have  done,  the  frequently 
recurring  refrain,  *'  Begin,  Sicilian  Muses,  begin  the  lament," 
which  is  a  strongly  characteristic  feature  of  the  original 
poem.    We  begin  with  the  beginning : 

Plaintively  groan  at  my  bidding,  ye  woodland  dells,  and  thou  Dorian 
water,  and  weep,  rivers,  the  lovely  Bion  ;  now  wail  at  my  bidding,  ye 
plants,  and  now,  groves,  utter  a  wail  ;  now  may  ye  flowers  breathe  forth 
your  life  in  sad  clusters;  blush  now  sorrowfully,  ye  roses,  now,  thou 
anemone  ;  now,  hyacinth,  speak  thy  letters,  and  with  thy  leaves  lisp 
'  ai,'  '  ai,'  more  than  is  thy  wont :    a  noble  minstrel  is  dead. 

Begin,  Sicilian  Muses,  begin  the  lament. 

Ye  nightingales,  that  wail  in  the  thick  foliage,  tell  the  news  to  the 
Sicilian  waters  of  Ar-e-thu'sa,  that  Bion  the  herdsman  is  dead,  that  with 
him  both  the  song  is  dead,  and  perished  is  Doric  minstrelsy. 

Begin,  Sicilian  Muses,  begin  the  lament. 

Echo  amid  the  rocks  laments,  because  thou  art  mute,  and  mimics 
no  more  thy  lips  ;  and  at  thy  death  the  trees  have  cast  off  their  fruit,  and 
the  flowers  have  all  withered  ;  good  milk  hath  not  flowed  from  ewes  ; 
nor  honey  from  hives  ;  but  it  has  perished  in  the  wax  wasted  with  grief ; 
for  no  longer  is  it  meet,  now  that  thy  honey  is  lost,  to  gather  that. 

Begin,  Sicilian  Muses,  begin  the  lament. 

All  along  with  thee,  O  herdsman,  have  perished  the  Muses'  gifts, 
charming  kisses  of  maidens,  lips  of  boys  :  and  around  thy  tomb  weep 
sad-visaged  Loves.  Venus  loves  thee  far  more  than  the  kiss,  with  which 
lately  she  kissed  dying  Adonis.     This  is  a  second  grief  to  thee,  most 


242  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


musical  of  rivers  !  This,  O  Me'les,  is  a  fresh  grief ;  to  thy  sorrow  per- 
ished Homer  aforetime,  that  sweet  mouth  of  Cal-H'o-pe,  and  men  say  thou 
didst  deplore  thine  illustrious  son  in  streams  of  much  weeping,  and 
didst  fill  all  the  sea  with  thy  voice :  now  again  thou  vi^eepest  another 
son,  and  pinest  over  a  fresh  woe.  Both  were  beloved  by  the  fountains  ; 
the  one  indeed  was  wont  to  drink  of  the  Peg-a-se'an  spring;  the  other,  to 
enjoy  a  draught  of  the  Arethusa.  And  the  one  sang  the  fair  daughter 
of  Tyn'da-nis,  and  the  mighty  son  of  Thetis,  and  Men-e-la'us,  son  of 
A'treus:  but  the  other  would  sing  not  of  wars,  nor  tears,  but  Pan  ;  and 
would  sound  the  praise  of  herdsmen,  and  feed  the  herd  as  he  sang  : 
and  he  was  wont  to  fashion  Pan's  pipes,  and  to  milk  the  sweet  heifer, 
and  to  teach  the  lips  of  youths,  and  to  cherish  Eros  in  his  bosom,  and 
rouse  a  passion  in  Aphrodite. 

Begin,  Sicilian  Muses,  begin  the  lament. 

Alas,  alas,  when  once  in  a  garden  the  mallows  have  died,  or  the 
green  parsley,  or  blooming  crisp  dill,  they  live  again  after,  and  spring 
up  another  year.  But  we,  the  great,  and  brave,  or  wise  of  men,  after  we 
have  once  died,  unheard  of  in  hollow  earth,  sleep  a  right  long  and 
boundless  slumber,  from  which  none  are  roused. 

Yet  were  I  able,  like  Or'pheus,  having  gone  down  to  Tar'ta-rus,  like 
Ulysses  once,  or  as  Al-ci'des  in  days  of  yore,  I  too  would  haply  descend 
to  the  home  of  Pluto,  that  I  might  see  thee,  and,  if  thou  singest  to 
Pluto,  that  I  might  hear  what  thou  singest.  Nay,  but  in  the  presence 
of  the  damsel  (Pro-ser'pine)  warble  some  Sicilian  strain,  sing  some  pleas- 
ant pastoral.  She  too,  being  Sicilian,  sported  on  the  ^tnaean  shores, 
and  knew  the  Doric  song  :  nor  will  thy  strain  be  unhonored  ;  and  as  of 
old  to  Orpheus,  sweetly  singing  to  his  lyre,  she  gave  Eu-ryd'i-ce  to  return, 
so  will  she  send  thee,  Bion,  to  thy  hills. 

(For  mythologic  and  other  allusions,  see  Index.) 
Of  Theocritus  personally  we  know  almost  as  little  as  of 
Bion  and  Moschus.  He  is  generally  referred  to  Syracuse  of 
Sicily,  but  we  guess,  with  much  confidence,  that  he  must  also 
have  passed  a  part  of  his  life  in  Alexandria.  There  is  strong 
internal  evidence  that  he  knew  something  of  Hebrew  litera- 
ture, that  is,  of  the  Bible.  This  would  have  been  quite 
natural,  since  his  time  coincided  with  that  of  the  making  of 
the  famous  Septuagint  Greek  version  of  the  Old  Testament, 
executed   at    Alexandria   under    the    auspices    of   Ptolemy 


Theocritus.  243 


Philadelphus.  There  are  suggestions  of  Scripture  imagery 
and  phrase  in  a  number  of  the  Theocritan  idylls.  The 
date  of  Theocritus's  birth  is  placed  between  284  and  280  B.  C. 

Virgil,  we  know,  drew  for  his  bucolic  poems  a  large  share 
of  his  material,  as  he  did  his  method  entire,  from  The- 
ocritus. It  is  conjectured,  with  great  probability,  that  The- 
ocritus was  himself  largely  indebted  to  preceding  poets 
whose  names  and  works  have  perished.  Of  undoubted 
absolute  intellectual  originality  there  is  very  little  under  the 
sun.  We  mortals  stand  in  a  line  of  succession,  receiving  and 
handing  on.  Well  is  it  if  once  in  a  while  one  of  us  hands 
on  some  trifle  more  than  he  received. 

As  a  specimen  of  Theocritus  in  his  purely  bucolic  or  pas- 
toral* vein,  we  select  the  first  idyll.  This  is  entitled  The 
Death  of  Daphnis.  It  is  a  dialogue  between  two  shepherds, 
including  a  song  from  one  of  them,  drawn  out  by  invitation 
of  the  other,  to  the  memory  of  Daphnis,  a  herdsman  that 
has  died.  The  poem  belongs  in  the  same  company  with 
those  which  we  have  already  given  from  Bion  and  Moschus. 
This  is  the  original  of  which  those  are  echoes.  (The  possible 
original,  of  which  this  also  is  an  echo,  has  been  lost.)  The 
Lycidas  of  Milton,  it  will  be  seen,  associates  itself  directly 
with  the  Death  of  Daphnis  hardly  less  than  with  the  lament 
for  Adonis  or  the  lament  for  Bion. 

For  our  translator  in  this  instance  we  elect  Mr.  Calverley. 
Mr.  Calverley,  a  man  of  letters  and  leisure  lately  deceased 
in  England,  best  known  by  his  graceful  *  verse  of  society  ' 
so-called,  gave  us  a  good  metrical  rendering  of  the  idylls 
of  Theocritus.  We  shall  not,  however,  hold  ourselves  in 
our  extracts  exclusively  to  him,  for  the  reason  that  of  one 
piece  by  Theocritus  which  we  should  wish  to  show  our 
readers,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  has  made  an  exceptionally 
happy  translation  in  prose.  Here  is  Mr.  Calverley's  version 
of  the  Death  of  Daphnis.  We  omit,  for  brevity's  sake,  the 
conversation  between  the  shepherds  introductory  to  that  song 


244  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

itself  on  the  death  of  Daphnis  which  gives  its  name  to  the 
idyll,  and  which  really  constitutes  the  substance  of  the  poem. 
The  lines  of  highly  realistic  conclusion,  after  the  song,  we 
give  to  show  the  poet's  art  in  ending.  The  "  sweet  Maids  " 
of  the  refrain  are  the  Muses  invoked  for  assistance  to  the 
singer.  The  death  of  Daphnis  is  a  case  of  pining  away 
under  disappointment  in  love  : 

THYRSI s  \sings.'\ 

Begin^  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
The  voice  of  Thyrsis.     Etna's  Thyrsis  I. 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  O  where,  while  Daphnis  pined  ? 
In  fair  Peneus'  or  in  Pindus'  glens  ? 
For  great  Anapus'  stream  was  not  your  haunt, 
Nor  Etna's  cliff,  nor  Acis'  sacred  rill. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
O'er  him  the  wolves,  the  jackals  howled  o'er  him  ; 
The  lion  in  the  oak-copse  mourned  his  death. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
The  kine  and  oxen  stood  around  his  feet. 
The  heifers  and  the  calves  wailed  all  for  him. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
First  from  the  mountain  Hermes  came,  and  said, 
"  Daphnis,  who  frets  thee  ?     Lad,  whom  lov'st  thou  so?" 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
Came  herdsmen,  shepherds  came,  and  goatherds  came  ; 
All  asked  what  ailed  the  lad.     Priapus  came 
And  said,  "  Why  pine,  poor  Daphnis?  while  the  maid 
Foots  it  round  every  pool  and  every  grove, 

{Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  xvoodland  song,) 
"  O  lack-love  and  perverse,  in  quest  of  thee  ; 
Herdsman  in  name,  but  goatherd  rightlier  called. 
With  eyes  that  yearn  the  goatherd  marks  his  kids 
Run  riot,  for  he  fain  would  frisk  as  they : 

{Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song:) 
"  With  eyes  that  yearn  dost  thou  too  mark  the  laugh 
Of  maidens,  for  thou  may'st  not  share  their  glee." 
Still  naught  the  herdsman  said  •  he  drained  alone 
His  bitter  portion,  till  the  fatal  end. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 


Theocritus.  245 


Came  Aphrodite,  smiles  on  her  sweet  face, 
False  smiles,  for  heavy  was  her  heart,  and  spake  : 
"  So,  Daphnis,  thou  must  try  a  fall  with  Level 
But  stalwart  Love  hath  won  the  fall  of  thee." 

Begin y  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
Then  '*  Ruthless  Aphrodite,"  Daphnis  said, 
"  Accursed  Aphrodite,  foe  to  man  ! 
Say'st  thou  mine  hour  is  come,  my  sun  hath  set? 
Dead  as  alive,  shall  Daphnis  work  Love  woe." 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
"  Fly  to  Mount  Ida,  where  the  swain  (men  say) 
And  Aphrodite — to  Anchises  fly  : 
There  are  oak-forests  ;  here  but  galingale, 
And  bees  that  make  a  music  round  the  hives. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
"  Adonis  owed  his  bloom  to  tending  flocks 
And  smiting  hares,  and  bringing  wild  beasts  down. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
"  Face  once  more  Diomed :  tell  him  '  I  have  slain 
The  herdsman  Daphnis ;  now  I  challenge  thee.* 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
"  Farewell,  wolf,  jackal,  mountain-prisoned  bear ! 
Ye'U  see  no  more  by  grove  or  glade  or  glen 
Your  herdsman  Daphnis  !     Arethuse,  farewell, 
And  the  bright  streams  that  pour  down  Thymbris*  side. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
"  I  am  that  Daphnis,  who  lead  here  my  kine, 
Bring  here  to  drink  my  oxen  and  my  calves. 

Begin,  sweet  Maids,  begin  the  woodland  song. 
"  Pan,  Pan,  O  whether  great  Lyceum's  crags 
Thou  haunt'st  to-day,  or  mightier  Maenalus, 
Come  to  the  Sicel  isle  !     Abandon  now 
Rhium  and  Helice,  and  the  mountain-cairn 
(That  e'en  gods  cherish)  of  Lycaon's  son  ! 

Forget,  sweet  Maids,  forget  your  woodland  song. 
"  Come,  king  of  song,  o'er  this  my  pipe,  compact 
With  wax  and  honey-breathing,  arch  thy  lip : 
For  surely  I  am  torn  from  life  by  Love. 

Forget,  sweet  Maids,  forget  your  woodland  song. 
"From  thicket  now  and  thorn  let  violets  spring, 
Now  let  white  lilies  drape  the  juniper. 


246  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


And  pines  grow  figs,  and  nature  all  go  wrong  : 
For  Daphnis  dies.     Let  deer  pursue  the  hounds, 
And  mountain-owls  outsing  the  nightingale. 

Forget y  sweet  Maids,  forget  your  woodland  song.'' 

So  spake  he,  and  he  never  spake  again. 
Fain  Aphrodite  would  have  raised  his  head  ; 
But  all  his  thread  was  spun.     So  down  the  stream 
Went  Daphnis  :  closed  the  waters  o'er  a  head 
Dear  to  the  Nine,  of  nymphs  not  unbeloved. 

Now  give  me  goat  and  cup  ;  that  I  may  milk 
The  one,  and  pour  the  other  to  the  Muse. 
Fare  ye  well,  Muses,  o'er  and  o'er  farewell ! 
I'll  sing  strains  lovelier  yet  in  days  to  be. 

GOATHERD. 

Thyrsis,  let  honey  and  the  honeycomb 

Fill  thy  sweet  mouth,  and  figs  of  ^gilus  : 

For  ne'er  cicala  trilled  so  sweet  a  song. 

Here  is  the  cup  :  mark,  friend,  how  sweet  it  smells  : 

The  Hours,  thou'lt  say,  have  washed  it  in  their  well. 

Hither,  Cissaetha!     Thou,  go  milk  her!     Kids, 

Be  steady,  or  your  pranks  will  rouse  the  ram. 

Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman,  under  the  title,  "Tennyson  and  Theoc- 
ritus," has,  in  his  "Victorian  Poets,"  discussed  charmingly  the 
relation  between  the  Englishman  and  the  Greek,  pointing 
out  the  debt  of  the  former  to  the  latter.  In  the  course  of 
doing  this,  Mr.  Stedman  has  interspersed  some  exquisite 
fragments  of  original  translation  from  Theocritus.  We  make 
room  for  a  single  specimen,  a  specimen  chosen  out  of  all  be- 
cause it  serves  for  us  a  threefold  purpose.  First,  it  exhibits 
Mr.  Stedman 's  deft  and  dainty  hand  in  this  work.  Secondly, 
it  suggests  an  interesting  parallelism,  noticed  by  Mr.  Sted- 
man himself,  between  Theocritus  and  two  Victorian  poets. 
Thirdly,  it  naturally  leads  us  to  that  extract  from  Theocritus 
in  Mr.  Arnold's  version,  with  which  we  must  hasten  to  close 
this  chapter.  Here,  then,  are  a  few  lines,  in  Mr.  Stedman's 
translation,  from  the  piece  by  Theocritus,  commonly  called 


Theocritus.  247 


The  Festival  of  x4.donis — which,  however,  Mr.  Stedman,  not 
inaptly,  as  our  readers,  when  the  whole  idyll  is  presented, 
will  see,  styles.  The  Syracusan  Gossips : 

How  fair  to  the«  the  gentle-footed  Hours 
Have  brought  Adonis  back  from  Acheron ! 
Sweet  hours,  and  slowest  of  the  Blessed  Ones : 
But  still  they  come  desired,  and  ever  bring 
Gifts  to  all  mortals. 

With  this  compare  the  following  three  lines  from  Tenny- 
son's Love  and  Duty: 

The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  good. 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  ill. 
And  all  good  things  from  evil. 

Then,  too,  Mrs.  Browning's  allusion  in  perhaps  the  most 
perfect  of  her  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  : 

I  thought  how  once  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young. 

The  piece.  The  Festival  of  Adonis,  now  to  follow  and  to 
finish  our  presentation  of  Theocritus,  is  not  a  pastoral  poem. 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  pronouncedly  a  poem  of  the  city.  But 
it  is  eminently  fit  to  be  called  an  idyll,  that  is,  a  little  picture. 
For  a  little  picture  it  is — a  picture  true  and  vivid,  as  if  painted 
by  the  sunbeam,  as  if,  that  is  to  say,  a  photograph — of  a  day's 
life,  the  life  of  a  religious  holiday,  lived  by  two  women  of  the 
common  class,  in  the  great  Greek  city  of  Alexandria,  in  the 
time  of  Theocritus.  We  may  forget  the  religious  dilettante- 
ism  inseparably  associated  with  the  purpose  for  which  the 
poem  is  introduced  and  with  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  treated 
by  Mr.  Arnold  in  his  essay — we  may  forget  this,  to  admire 
and  enjoy  with  heart  the  vivacity  and  the  grace  with  which 
the  translation  is  executed.  Here  is  the  poem,  but  we  give 
first  the  prefatory  explanation  supplied  by  Mr.  Arnold : 


248  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

*'The  idyll  is  dramatic.  Somewhere  about  two  hundred 
and  eighty  years  before  the  Christian  era,  a  couple  of  Syra- 
cusan  women,  staying  at  Alexandria,  agreed,  on  the  occasion 
of  a  great  religious  solemnity — the  feast  of  Adonis — to  go 
together  to  the  palace  of  King  Ptolemy  Philadelphus,  to  see 
the  image  of  Adonis,  which  the  Queen  Ar-sin'o-e,  Ptolemy's 
wife,  had  had  decorated  with  peculiar  magnificence.  A 
hymn,  by  a  celebrated  performer,  was  to  be  recited  over  the 
image.  The  names  of  the  two  women  are  Gorgo  and  Prax- 
in'o-e ;  their  maids,  who  are  mentioned  in  the  poem,  are 
called  Eu'no-e  and  Eu'ty-chis.  Gorgo  comes,  by  appoint- 
ment, to  Praxinoe's  house  to  fetch  her,  and  there  the  dia- 
logue begins : " 

Gorgo.  Is  Praxinoe  at  home? 

Praxinoe.  My  dear  Gorgo,  at  last!  Yes,  here  I  am.  Eunoe,  find  a 
chair, — get  a  cushion  for  it. 

G.  It  will  do  beautifully  as  it  is. 

P.  Do  sit  down, 

G.  O,  this  gadabout  spirit !  I  could  hardly  get  to  you,  Praxinoe, 
through  all  the  crowd  and  all  the  carriages.  Nothing  but  heavy  boots, 
nothing  but  men  in  uniform.  And  what  a  journey  it  is !  My  dear  child, 
you  really  live  too  far  oft". 

P.  It  is  all  that  insane  husband  of  mine.  He  has  chosen  to  come  out 
here  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  take  a  hole  of  a  place, — for  a  house  it 
is  not, — on  purpose  that  you  and  I  might  not  be  neighbors.  He  is  alwaj  s 
just  the  same  ; — any  thing  to  quarrel  with  one  !  any  thing  for  spite ! 

G.  My  dear,  don't  talk  so  of  your  husband  before  the  little  fellow. 
Just  see  how  astonished  he  looks  at  you.  Never  mind,  Zo-pyr'i-o,  my 
pet,  she  is  not  talking  about  papa. 

P.  Good  heavens  !  the  child  does  really  understand. 

G.  Pretty  papa  ! 

P.  That  pretty  papa  of  his  the  other  day  (though  I  told  him  before- 
hand to  mind  what  he  was  about),  when  I  sent  him  to  a  shop  to  buy 
soap  and  rouge  brought  me  home  salt  instead  ; — stupid,  great,  big,  in- 
terminable animal  ! 

G.  Mine  is  just  the  fellow  to  him.  .  .  .  But  never  mind  now,  get  on 
your  things  and  let  us  be  off"  to  the  palace  to  see  the  Adonis.  I  hear 
the  queen's  decorations  are  something  splendid. 


Theocritus.  249 


P.  In  grand  people's  houses  every  thing  is  grand.  What  things  you 
have  seen  in  Alexandria  !  What  a  deal  you  will  have  to  tell  to  any 
body  who  has  never  been  here  ! 

G.  Come,  we  ought  to  be  going. 

P.  Every  day  is  holiday  to  people  who  have  nothing  to  do.  Eunoe, 
pick  up  your  work  ;  and  take  care,  lazy  girl,  how  you  leave  it  lying 
about  again  ;  the  cats  find  it  just  the  bed  they  like.  Come,  stir  your- 
self, fetch  me  some  water,  quick  !  I  wanted  the  water  first,  and  the 
girl  brings  me  the  soap.  Never  mind  ;  give  it  me.  Not  all  that,  extrav- 
agant !  Now  pour  out  the  water  : — stupid  !  why  don't  you  take  care  of 
my  dress?  That  will  do.  I  have  got  my  hands  washed  as  it  pleased 
God.     Where  is  th'e  key  of  the  large  wardrobe  ?    Bring  it  here  ; — quick  ! 

G.  Praxinoe,  you  can't  think  how  well  that  dress,  made  full,  as  you've 
got  it,  suits  you.  Tell  me,  how  much  did  it  cost  ?— the  dress  by  itself, 
I  mean. 

P.  Don't  talk  of  it,  Gorgo  ;  more  than  eight  guineas  of  good  hard 
money.     And  about  the  work  on  it  I  have  almost  worn  my  life  out. 

G.  Well,  you  couldn't  have  done  better. 

P.  Thank  you.  Bring  me  my  shawl,  and  put  my  hat  properly  on  my 
head  ; — properly.  No,  child  {to  her  little  boy),  I  am  not  going  to  take 
you  ;  there's  a  bogy  on  horseback,  who  bites.  Cry  as  much  as  you  like  • 
I'm  not  going  to  have  you  lamed  for  life.  Now  we'll  start.  Nurse,  take 
the  little  one  and  amuse  him  ;  call  the  dog  in,  and  shut  the  street-door. 
(  They  go  out.)  Good  heavens  !  what  a  crowd  of  people  !  How  on  earth 
are  we  ever  to  get  through  all  this?  They  are  like  ants :  you  can't  count 
them.  My  dearest  Gorgo,  what  will  become  of  us  ?  here  are  the  royal 
Horse  Guards.  My  good  man,  don't  ride  over  me  !  Look  at  that  bay 
horse  rearing  bolt  upright  ;  what  a  vicious  one  !  Eunoe,  you  mad  girl, 
do  take  care  ! — that  horse  will  certainly  be  the  death  of  the  man  on  his 
back.     How  glad  I  am  now  that  I  left  the  child  safe  at  home  ! 

G.  All  right,  Praxinoe,  we  are  safe  behind  them  ;  and  they  have  gone 
on  to  where  they  are  stationed. 

P.  Well,  yes,  I  begin  to  revive  again.  From  the  time  I  was  a  little 
girl  I  have  had  more  horror  of  horses  and  snakes  than  of  any  thing  in 
the  world.  Let  us  get  on  ;  here's  a  great  crowd  coming  this  way  upon 
us. 

G.  {to  an  old  woman).  Mother,  are  you  from  the  palace  ? 

Old  Woman.  Yes,  my  dears. 

G.   Has  one  a  tolerable  chance  of  getting  there  ? 

O.   W.   My  pretty  young  lady,  the  Greeks  got  to  Troy  by  dint  of  trying 
hard  ;  trying  will  do  any  thing  in  this  world. 
11* 


250  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

G.  The  old  creature  has  delivered  herself  of  an  oracle  and  departed. 

P.  Women  can  tell  you  every  thing  about  every  thing,  Jupiter's  mar- 
riage with  Juno  not  excepted. 

G.  Look,  Praxinoe,  what  a  squeeze  at  the  palace-gates  ! 

P.  Tremendous  !  Take  hold  of  me,  Gorgo,  and  you,  Eunoe,  take 
hold  of  Eutychis  ! — tight  hold,  or  you'll  be  lost.  Here  we  go  in  all  to- 
gether. Hold  tight  to  us,  Eunoe.  O  dear  !  O  dear  !  Gorgo,  there's 
my  scarf  torn  right  in  two.  For  heaven's  sake,  my  good  man,  as  you 
hope  to  be  saved,  take  care  of  my  dress  ! 

Strange}'.  I'll  do  what  I  can,  but  it  doesn't  depend  upon  me. 

F.  What  heaps  of  people  !     They  push  like  a  drove  of  pigs. 

Str.   Don't  be  frightened,  ma'am,  we  are  all  right. 

F.  May  you  be  all  right,  my  dear  sir,  to  the  last  day  you  live,  for  the  care 
you  have  taken  of  us  !  What  a  kind,  considerate  man  !  There  is  Eunoe 
jammed  in  a  squeeze.  Push,  you  goose,  push  !  Capital !  We  are  all 
of  us  the  right  side  of  the  door,  as  the  bridegroom  said  when  he  had 
locked  himself  in  with  the  bride. 

G.  Praxinoe,  come  this  way.  Do  but  look  at  that  work,  how  delicate 
it  is !  how  exquisite  !     Why,  they  might  wear  it  in  heaven. 

F.  Heavenly  patroness  of  needlewomen,  what  hands  were  hired  to  do 
that  work  ?  Who  designed  those  beautiful  patterns  ?  They  seem  to 
stand  up  and  move  about,  as  if  they  were  real ; — as  if  they  were  living 
things,  and  not  needlework.  Well,  man  is  a  wonderful  creature  !  And 
look,  look,  how  charming  he  lies  there  on  his  silver  couch,  with  just  a 
soft  down  on  his  cheeks,  that  beloved  Adonis, — Adonis,  whom  one  loves 
even  though  he  is  dead  ! 

Another  Stranger.  You  wretched  woman,  do  stop  your  incessant  chat- 
ter !  Like  turtles,  you  go  on  forever.  They  are  enough  to  kill  one  with 
their  broad  lingo, — nothing  but  a,  a,  a. 

G.  Lord,  where  does  the  man  come  from  ?  What  is  it  to  you  if  we 
are  chatter-boxes?  Order  about  your  own  servants !  Do  you  give  orders 
to  Syracusan  women  ?  If  you  want  to  know,  we  came  originally  from 
Corinth,  as  Bellerophon  did ;  we  speak  Peloponnesian.  I  suppose  Dorian 
women  may  be  allowed  to  have  a  Dorian  accent. 

F.  O,  honey-sweet  Proserpine,  let  us  have  no  more  masters  than  the 
one  we've  got!  We  don't  the  least  care  for  youy  pray  don't  trouble 
yourself  for  nothing. 

G.  Be  quiet,  Praxinoe!  That  first-rate  singer,  the  Argive  woman's 
daughter,  is  going  to  sing  the  Adonis  hymn.  She  is  the  same  who  was 
chosen  to  sing  the  dirge  last  year.  We  are  sure  to  have  something  first- 
rate  from  Aer.     She  is  going  through  her  airs  and  graces  ready  to  begin. 


llieocritus. 


Mr.  Arnold  interrupts  with  admirable  admiring  comment, 
as  follows : 

"  So  far  the  dialogue ;  and,  as  it  stands  in  the  original,  it 
can  hardly  be  praised  too  highly.  It  is  a  page  torn  fresh  out 
of  the  book  of  human  life.  What  freedom!  What  anima- 
tion !  What  gayety !  What  naturalness !  It  is  said  that 
Theocritus,  in  composing  this  poem,  borrowed  from  a  work 
of  Sophron,  a  poet  of  an  earlier  and  better  time ;  but,  even 
if  this  is  so,  the  form  is  still  Theocritus's  own,  and  how  excel- 
lent is  that  form,  how  masterly !  And  this  in  a  Greek  poem 
of  the  decadence ;  for  Theocritus's  poetry,  after  all,  is  poetry 
of  the  decadence.  When  such  is  Greek  poetry  of  the  deca- 
dence, what  must  be  Greek  poetry  of  the  prime? 

"  Then  the  singer  begins  her  hymn  :" 

Mistress,  who  lovest  the  haunt  of  Golgi,  and  Idalium,  and  high-peaked 
E'ryx,  Aphrodite  that  playest  with  gold  1  how  have  the  delicate-footed 
Hours,  after  twelve  months,  brought  thy  Adonis  back  to  thee  from  the 
ever-flowing  Ach'e-ron  !  Tardiest  of  the  immortals  are  the  boon  Hours, 
but  all  mankind  wait  their  approach  with  longing,  for  they  ever  bring 
something  with  them.  O  Cypris,  Di-o'ne's  child  !  thou  didst  change — so  is 
the  story  among  men — Ber-e-ni'ce  from  mortal  to  immortal,  by  dropping 
ambrosia  into  her  fair  bosom ;  and  in  gratitude  to  thee  for  this,  O  thou 
of  many  names  and  many  temples,  Bereni'ce's  daughter,  Arsinoe,  lovely 
Helen's  living  counterpart,  makes  much  of  Adonis  with  all  manner 
of  braveries. 

All  fruits  that  the  tree  bears  are  laid  before  him,  all  treasures  of  the 
garden  in  silver  baskets,  and  alabaster  boxes,  gold-inlaid,  of  Syrian  un- 
guent ;  and  all  confectionary  that  cunning  women  make  on  their  knead- 
ing-tray,  kneading  up  every  sort  of  flowers  with  white  meal,  and  all  that 
they  make  of  sweet  honey  and  delicate  oil,  and  all  winged  and  creeping 
things  are  here  set  before  him.  And  there  are  built  for  him  green 
bowers  with  wealth  of  tender  anise,  and  little  boy-loves  flutter  about  over 
them,  like  young  nightingales  trying  their  new  wings  on  the  tree,  from 
bough  to  bough.  O  the  ebony,  the  gold,  the  eagle  of  white  ivory  that 
bears  aloft  his  cup-bearer  to  Kronos-born  Zeus  I  And  up  there,  see  1  a 
second  couch  strewn  for  lovely  Adonis,  scarlet  coverlids  softer  than  sleep 
itself  (so  Mi-le'tus  and  the  Samian  wool-grower  will  say) ;  Cypris  has 
hers,  and  the  rosy-armed  Adonis  has  his,  that  eighteen  or  nineteen-year- 


252  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

old  bridegroom.  His  kisses  will  not  wound,  the  hair  on  his  lip  is  yet 
light. 

Now,  Cypris,  good-night,  we  leave  thee  with  thy  bridegroom  ;  but 
to-morrow  morning,  with  the  earliest  dew,  we  will  one  and  all  bear  him 
forth  to  where  the  waves  splash  upon  the  sea-strand,  and  letting  loose 
our  locks,  and  letting  fall  our  robes,  with  bosoms  bare,  we  will  set  up 
this,  our  melodious  strain  : — 

Beloved  Adonis,  alone  of  the  demigods  (so  men  say)  thou  art  permitted 
to  visit  both  us  and  Acheron!  This  lot  had  neither  Agamemnon,  nor  the 
mighty  moon-struck  hero,  Ajax,  nor  Hector,  the  first-born  of  Hec'u-ba's 
twenty  children,  nor  Pa-tro'clus,  nor  Pyrrhus,  who  came  home  from  Troy, 
nor  those  yet  earlier  Lap''i-thae  and  the  sons  of  Deu-ca'li-on,  nor  the  Pelas- 
gians,  the  root  of  Argos  and  of  Pelops'  isle.  Be  gracious  to  us  now, 
loved  Adonis,  and  be  favorable  to  us  for  the  year  to  come !  Dear  to  us 
hast  thou  been  at  this  coming,  dear  to  us  shalt  thou  be  when  thou 
comest  again. 

We  are  duly  let  down  with  these  last  words  from  Gorgo : 

Praxinoe,  certainly  women  are  wonderful  things.  That  lucky  woman 
to  know  all  that !  and  luckier  still  to  have  such  a  splendid  voice  !  And 
now  we  must  see  about  getting  home.  My  husband  has  not  had  his  din- 
ner. That  man  is  all  vinegar,  and  nothing  else ;  and  if  you  keep  him 
waiting  for  his  dinner  he's  dangerous  to  go  near.  Adieu,  precious 
Adonis,  and  may  you  find  us  all  well  when  you  come  next  year  ! 

The  light-hearted,  innocent-seeming  play  of  spirits  in  a 
dialogue  like  the  foregoing  need  deceive  no  reader.  Sweet 
purity  did  not  underlie  Greek  life  ;  nor  was  there  high  moral 
tone  in  the  man  to  keep  free  the  genius  of  Theocritus  from 
faults  of  indecency  in  his  verse.  The  English  translator  who 
would  make  from  Theocritus  a  book  suitable  for  the  drawing- 
room  must  at  points  expurgate  and  veil  his  original  with 
care.  To  have  altogether  the  Greek's  taste  one  would  need 
have  also  the  Greek's  religion.  The  Greek's  religion  we 
have  done  well  to  throw  wholly  away.  We  have,  perhaps,  not 
yet,  either  in  letters  or  in  art,  thrown  away  quite  as  much  as 
we-should  of  the  Greek's  taste.  Indeed,  in  the  sphere  of 
aesthetics  we  have  still  not  a  little  both  to  learn  and  to  un- 
learn from  the  Greek. 


Demosthenes. 


253 


ELOQUENCE 


XI. 

DEMOSTHENES, 

iESCHINES. 

We  have  several  times  before  applied  a  convenient  formula 
of  expression,  which  we  may  now  again  with  propriety  re- 
sume and  adapt.  We  may  say  that  not 
more  certainly  is  Homer  first  in  fame  among 
epic  poets,  Pindar  among  poets  of  the 
lyre,  than  among  masters  of  eloquence  is 
Demosthenes.  With  Demosthenes — set  by 
that  orator's  side  in  foil  and  contrast, 
somewhat  as  with  Cicero  was  Hortensius, 
as  with  Webster,  Hayne — was  associated 
^schines.  Very  evenly  matched  in  ora- 
torio excellence  seem  the  two  great 
orations,  pitted  against  each  other  still, 
in  their  now  silent  but  never-to-be-paci- 
fied contention  and  rivalry — the  two  acknowledged  master- 
pieces, we  mean,  respectively  of  ^schines  and  of  Demos- 
thenes. It  is  even  easy  to  imagine  the  chance  that  should 
have  inverted  their  actual  relative  rank  in  fame.  Had  but 
^schines  happened  to  get  the  majority  of  votes  instead  of 
Demosthenes,  how  know  we  that  the  literature  of  subsequent 
appreciation  and  criticism  would  not,  with  apparent  success, 
have  exerted  itself  to  show  good  reason  why  such  an  issue  of 
the  trial  was  according  to  the  respective  merits  of  the  men 
and  the  orators.?  It  is  the  commander  who  wins  the  battle, 
it  is  the  orator  who  carries  the  day — in  short,  it  is  success, 


DEMOSTHENES. 


254  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

rather  than  desert  of  success — that  men  in  general  have  the 
habit  of  crowning. 

But  we  agree  that  Demosthenes  was  in  truth  the  greater 
orator.  To  clinch  the  conclusion,  there  is  that  fine  story  of 
^schines  which  ever)^  body  knows,  ^schines,  failing  to  re- 
ceive in  his  suit  one  fifth  part  of  the  votes,  felt  obliged  to 
leave  Athens.  He  took  up  at  Rhodes  the  occupation  of  a 
teacher  of  oratory.  He  there  read  to  his  pupils  the  oration 
against  himself  of  his  rival  and  conqueror.  When  his  pupils 
applauded,  ^schines  exclaimed,  "  But  you  should  have  heard 
the  rascal  deliver  it  himself!"  The  generosity  of  this  trait 
in  ^schines  wins  on  us  irresistibly  in  behalf  of  the  man  that 
displayed  it. 

Still  ^schines  does  show  at  disadvantage  in  contrast  with 
Demosthenes.  There  is  in  Demosthenes  more  moral  height, 
more  genuineness — certainly  not  more  artifice,  but  more  art; 
for  Demosthenes  was  an  orator  by  art.  Stormy  we  called 
him,  and  stormy  he  was,  but  he  stormed  by  rule  and  not  by 
caprice.  His  passion  was  deep  enough  and  strong  enough 
and  earnest  enough  to  submit  to  be  regulated.  It  was  not 
heady.  It  did  not  indulge  itself.  It  obeyed  necessary  law 
— it  served  its  chosen  end. 

The  art  of  Demosthenes  was  twofold.  It  respected  his 
composition  as  well  as  his  delivery.  The  stories  are  well 
known  of  the  natural  difficulties  with  which  Demosthenes 
contended  in  becoming  an  orator.  His  articulation  was  bad. 
To  remedy  this  defect  he  trained  his  vocal  organs  by  de- 
claiming with  pebbles  in  his  mouth.  He  was  easily  thrown 
off  his  balance  by  interruptions  of  noise.  Against  this 
weakness  he  fortified  himself  by  declaiming  on  the  shore 
to  the  waves  of  the  far-resounding  sea.  The  noise  of  these 
waves  should  be  to  him  as  the  tumult  of  the  people  in  their 
assemblies.  He  practiced  before  a  mirror,  with  a  sword 
hung  over  the  shoulder  to  correct  a  habit  he  had  of  shrugging 
that  member  ungracefully.     An  actor   recited  back  to  him 


Dcfjiostheties.  255 


a  passage  of  Euripides  that  he  had  himself  just  recited,  and 
in  doing  so  improved  upon  his  own  manner  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  the  young  orator  went  at  the  business  of  learning 
how  to  speak  as  if  he  had  it  all  still  to  learn.  Action, 
action,  action — that  is,  delivery,  delivery,  delivery — was  the 
beginning,  the  middle,  and  the  end  of  oratory  with  Demos- 
thenes. • 

But  Demosthenes  studied  style  in  composition  no  less  than 
he  studied  style  in  elocution.  Of  Ignatius  Loyola  it  was 
said  that  he  prayed  as  if  every  thing  depended  upon  God, 
and  then  got  up  and  worked  as  if  every  thing  depended  upon 
himself.  So  it  might  be  said  of  Demosthenes,  that  he  culti- 
vated art  in  writing  as  if  the  chief  thing  in  oratory  was  to 
write,  and  then  cultivated  art  in  speaking,  as  if  the  chief 
thing  in  oratory  was  to  speak.  He  copied  the  history  of 
Thucydides  eight  times  throughout,  to  acquire  that  histo- 
rian's mastery  of  dense  and  weighty  expression.  He  shaved 
one  side  of  his  head  and  hid  himself  in  a  cave  to  work  there 
until  his  hair  should  grow  again.  His  enemies  charged  that 
his  speeches  smelled  of  oil.  It  was  the  oil  of  the  midnight 
lamp,  lighting  his  studies,  that  they  meant. 

These  stories  about  the  studious  habits  of  Demosthenes 
are  probably  authentic.  But  they  might  be  mythical  in  part, 
and  yet  the  just  effect  of  them  remain  unimpaired.  It  can- 
not be  doubted  that  the  man  of  whom  such  stories  became 
current  was  in  truth  very  much  the  sort  of  man  that  these 
stories  represent  Demosthenes  to  have  been.  The  greatest 
orator  in  the  world  forms  a  nearly  ideal  example  of  what 
self-culture  can  do  against  serious  obstacles  from  nature. 
Demosthenes  was  no  doubt  a  man  of  magnificent  mental 
gifts,  but  no  less  was  he  a  man  of  magnificent  will. 

As  if  to  make  the  example  thus  supplied  in  Demosthenes 
complete  by  contrast,  it  happened  that  against  Demosthenes 
was  matched  in  rivalry  a  man  in  whom  every  natural  quali- 
fication of  r^e  orator  existed  and  was  carried  to  its  height. 


256  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

^schines  was  born  an  orator.  He  had  a  voice  like  the 
voice  of  a  herald.  Grace  and  majesty  modulated  his  gesture. 
Words  came  to  him  like  affectionate  lieges 
trooping  to  a  king.  Yet  the  orator  made 
outdid  the  orator  born.  Demosthenes  was 
greater  than  ^schines. 

It  is  no  mere  traditionary  and  conven- 
tional opinion,  the  opinion  that  Demosthe- 
nes was  the  greatest  of  orators.  It  might 
indeed  with  excellent  reason  be  argued  in 
prediction  that  never  in  the  future  history 
of  mankind  will  there  appear  another  ora- 
tor quite  equal  to  him.  At  any  rate,  that 
ever  agam  there  will  exist  in  the  world  a 
state  of  things  altogether  so  adapted  to  breed  orators  of  the 
highest  rank,  as  was  the  state  of  things  in  which  Demosthenes 
flourished,  may  be  set  down  for  one  of  the  most  improbable 
of  prophetic  conjectures. 

In  the  first  place,  the  Greek  temperament — the  Ionic 
temperament  at  least — was  of  all  temperaments  the  tempera- 
ment for  oratory.  In  the  second  place,  the  Greek  language 
was  of  all  languages  the  language  for  oratory.  In  the  third 
place,  the  Greek  climate  was  surpassingly  favorable  to  clear 
voice  and  bright  animal  spirits.  In  the  fourth  place,  the 
Greek  habits  of  life  were,  in  some  peculiar  respects,  highly 
conducive  to  vigor  of  physical  health.  In  the  fifth  place, 
Athens  was  a  pure  democracy.  In  the  sixth  place,  the 
Athenian  assembly  of  voters  was  numerous  enough  to  make 
a  suitably  exciting  audience.  In  the  seventh  place,  that 
assembly  was  not  numerous  enough  to  make  an  audience 
too  large  for  a  good  speaker  to  command  with  his  voice.  In 
the  eighth  place,  the  intelligence  cf  the  people,  naturally 
quick,  was  trained  to  an  alertness  probably  never  elsewhere 
equaled  among  average  men.  In  the  ninth  plac%  the  Athe- 
nians' appetite  for  eloquence  was  keen  beyonc  any  parallel 


Demosthenes.  257 


in  history.  In  the  tenth  place,  their  fondness  for  news  and 
for  new  ideas  was  proverbial.  In  the  eleventh  place,  the 
popular  assembly  of  Athens  was  the  instinctive  resort  of  the 
citizens  for  the  gratification  of  these  tastes.  In  the  twelfth 
place,  there  was  no  newspaper  press  to  divide  with  the  bema 
the  attention  of  the  popular  mind.  In  the  thirteenth  place, 
Athenian  politics  were  always  enterprising  and  meddlesome 
enough  to  supply  rousing  topics  of  debate.  In  the  fourteenth 
place, the  prizes  of  eloquence,  in  the  form  of  power  and  of  fame, 
were  more  imminent  and  more  dazzling  at  Athens  than  ever 
they  were  anywhere  else  in  the  world.  In  the  fifteenth 
place,  the  resulting  competition  among  orators  was  incessant 
and  incomparably  eager.  In  the  sixteenth  place,  the  per- 
sonal element — as  was  natural  in  a  municipality  like  that 
of  Athens  where  the  citizens  all  might  know  one  another — 
entered  to  add  the  necessary  last  ingredient  of  highest 
stimulation  for  the  powers  and  passions  of  orators. 

Such  a  concurrence  of  conditions  productive  of  eloquence 
is  little  likely  ever  to  be  renewed  under  the  sun.  In  saying, 
therefore,  that  Demosthenes  was  the  summit  of  Athenian 
eloquence,  we,  at  the  same  time,  say  that  he  was  the  summit 
of  the  eloquence  of  mankind. 

But  after  commendation  so  high,  bestowed  on  Demos- 
thenes, we  experience  a  reaction  of  embarrassment.  We  shall 
not  be  able  to  present  any  specimen  extracts  from  his  ora- 
tions that  will  seem  to  justify  our  praise.  Almost  certainly 
our  readers  will  feel  that,  this  once  at  least,  their  author  is 
carried  fairly  off  his  feet  by  a  "  third  wave"  of  enthusiasm  for 
his  fa^'orite  classics.  Such  is  not  the  fact.  But  there  is  suf- 
ficient reason  why  any  exemplification  whatever  must  fail  of 
triumphantly  exhibiting  Demosthenes  as  the  prince  of  orators 
that  he  was.  The  living  action,  action,  action,  of  the  orator 
himself  will  be  wanting.  The  eager  original  audience,  which 
was  half,  or  more  than  half,  of  the  oratory,  will  be — visionary 
and  silent !     The  occasion  will  have  perished.     The  details 


253  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

of  history,  the  circumstances,  the  local  and  personal  objects 
of  swift  passing  allusion  from  the  orator — these  are  gone  now, 
many  of  them  quite  irrecoverably  gone,  and  all  of  them  gone 
so  as  to  be  recoverable  only  through  much  special  study. 
And  then,  besides,  however  good  the  translation,  translation 
it  must  be,  wherein  Demosthenes  here  is  shown,  not  the 
original  speech  with  its  infinitely  labored  and  infinitely  ex- 
quisite style.  Perhaps,  too,  we  ought  to  make  it  a  point  as 
important  as  any  in  the  reason  why  our  exemplification  of  this 
orator  must  inevitably  disappoint  our  readers,  that  the  very 
idea  of  eloquence  was  different  with  Demosthenes  from  what 
the  idea  of  eloquence  is  but  too  likely  to  be  in  the  popular 
mind  of  to-day.  Eloquence  with  Demosthenes  was  an  art 
of  getting  his  hearers'  votes,  not  an  art  of  getting  his  hearers* 
praise.  You  must  not  look  for  passages  of  *'  fine  writing  "  in 
the  speeches  of  Demosthenes.  His  speeches  are  practical, 
not  poetical.  There  are  no  ambitious  rhetorical  climaxes  in 
them  which  the  audience  could,  by  a  round  of  applause,  pay 
the  orator  for  his  trouble  in  building.  You  would  as  soon 
think  of  an  American  jury's  applauding  the  lawyer  that  was 
addressing  them,  as  think  of  the  Athenian  assembly's  ap- 
plauding Demosthenes.  The  indignant  orator  would  tell 
them.  Spare  your  cheers  while  I  am  speaking,  and  give  me 
your  votes  when  I  have  done.  We  need  not  say  that  we 
consider  the  Demosthenic  conception  of  eloquence  the  true. 
The  speeches  that  remain  of  Demosthenes  are  of  two  sorts 
— private  and  public,  or  judicial  and  political ;  for  Demos- 
thenes was  a  lawyer  as  well  as  a  statesman.  As  lawyer  he 
wrote  for  clients  engaged  in  litigation  speeches  which  those 
clients  were  supposed  to  deliver  for  themselves  before  the 
court.  These  speeches  he  sought  to  make  suit  the  condition, 
the  circumstances,  the  character,  of  the  men  who  were  to  use 
them.  It  would  not  be  wise  for  us  here  to  reproduce  any 
of  the  private  orations  of  Demosthenes.  Of  Demosthenes's 
public  orations,  those  against  Philip  of  Macedon — existing  in 


Deifwsthenes.  259 


two  series,  one  called  Olynthiacs  and  another  Philippics — and 
in  addition  to  these,  the  Oration  on  the  Crown,  so-called,  are 
the  most  celebrated.  The  oration  last  mentioned  is,  at  least 
by  popular  fame,  the  masterpiece  of  Demosthenes.  Our 
readers  would  naturally  be  ill-contented  not  to  have  some 
representative  extracts  from  this.  First,  however,  we  pro- 
pose to  let  them  see  an  extract — a  full  half  of  the  whole  short 
harangue  it  shall  be — from  what  Mr.  Grote  pronounces  "one 
of  the  most  splendid  harangues  ever  uttered,"  namely,  the 
third  Olynthiac  oration  of  Demosthenes. 

This  oration  is  so  styled  from  its  being  about  Olynthus,  a 
city  threatened  by  Philip,  and  seeking  from  the  Athenians 
succor  against  him — succor  that  Demosthenes  was  anxious  the 
Athenians  should  send.  Philip  was  by  this  time  well  launched 
on  his  conquering  career.  Demosthenes,  in  all  his  efforts 
against  the  Macedonian  monarch,  sought  nobly,  but  vainly, 
to  reanimate  the  supine  and  abject  spirit  of  his  countrymen. 
He  was  of  an  age  too  late.  The  glorious  age  for  Athens  was 
irrevocably  past.  It  is  as  much  pathetic  as  it  is  inspiring,  to 
watch  Demosthenes  vicariously  struggling,  and  left  to  struggle 
alone,  for  his  country  against  his  country's  inevitable  fate. 
He  spoke  to  the  deaf;  but  if  the  deaf  could  hear,  the  Athe- 
nians would  have  heard  Demosthenes.  We  begin  at  a  point 
nearly  midway  of  the  oration : 

Is  there  not  a  man  among  you,  Athenians,  who  reflects  by  what  steps 
Philip,  from  a  beginning  so  inconsiderable,  has  mounted  to  this  height 
of  power?  First,  he  took  Am-phip'o-lis ;  then  he  became  master  of  Pydna; 
then  Pot-i-daa'a  fell ;  then  Me-tho'ne  ;  then  came  his  inroad  into  Thessaly; 
after  this,  having  disposed  affairs  at  Phe'rae,  at  Pag'a-sae,  at  Magnesia, 
entirely  as  he  pleased,  he  marched  into  Thrace.  Here,  while  engaged 
in  expelhng  some  and  establishing  other  princes,  he  fell  sick.  Again 
recovering,  he  never  turned  a  moment  from  his  course  to  ease  and  indul- 
gence, but  instantly  attacked  the  Olynthians.  His  expeditions  against 
the  Illyrians,  the  Paeonians,  against  A-rym^bas,  I  pass  all  over.  But  I 
may  be  asked,  Why  this  recital  now  ?  That  you  may  know  and  see  your 
own  en-or,  in  ever  neglecting  some  part  of  your  affairs,  as  if  beneath 


26o  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

your  regard,  and  that  active  spirit  with  which  Philip  pursues  his  designs  ; 
which  ever  fires  him,  and  which  never  can  permit  him  to  rest  satisfied 
with  those  things  he  has  already  accomplished.  If,  then,  he  determines 
firmly  and  invariably  to  pursue  his  conquests,  and  if  we  are  obstinately 
resolved  against  every  vigorous  and  effectual  measure,  think  what  conse- 
quences may  we  expect  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  can  any  man  be  so 
weak,  as  not  to  know,  that  by  neglecting  this  war,  we  are  transferring  it 
from  that  country  to  our  own?  And  should  this  happen,  I  fear,  Atheni- 
ans !  that  as  they  who  inconsiderately  borrow  money  upon  high  interest, 
after  a  short-lived  affluence  are  deprived  of  their  own  fortunes  ;  so  we,  by 
this  continued  indolence,  by  consulting  only  our  ease  and  pleasure,  may 
be  reduced  to  the  grievous  necessity  of  engaging  in  affairs  the  most  shock- 
ing and  disagreeable,  and  of  exposing  ourselves  in  the  defense  of  this  our 
native  territory. 

To  censure  some  one  may  tell  me  is  easy,  and  in  the  power  of  every 
man,  but  the  true  counselor  should  point  out  that  conduct  which  the 
present  exigence  demands.  Sensible  as  I  am,  Athenians,  that  when 
your  expectations  have  in  any  instance  been  disappointed,  your  resent- 
ment frequently  falls  not  on  those  who  merit  it,  but  on  him  who  has 
spoken  last ;  yet  I  cannot,  from  a  regard  to  my  own  safety,  suppress 
what  I  deem  of  moment  to  lay  before  you.  I  say,  then,  this  occasion 
calls  for  a  twofold  armament.  First,  we  are  to  defend  the  cities  of  the 
Olynthians,  and  for  this  purpose  to  detach  a  body  of  forces  ;  in  the  next 
place,  in  order  to  infest  his  kingdom,  we  are  to  send  out  our  navy 
manned  with  other  levies.  If  you  neglect  either  of  these,  I  fear  your 
expedition  will  be  fruitless.  For  if  you  content  yourselves  with  infest- 
ing his  dominions,  this  he  will  endure,  until  he  is  master  of  Olynthus; 
and  then  he  can,  with  ease,  repel  the  invasion;  or,  if  you  only  send  suc- 
cors to  the  Olynthians,  where  he  sees  his  own  kingdom  free  from 
danger,  he  will  apply  with  constancy  and  vigilance  to  the  war,  and  at 
length  weary  out  the  besieged  to  a  submission.  Your  levies,  therefore, 
must  be  considerable  enough  to  serve  both  purposes.  These  are  my 
sentiments  with  respect  to  our  armament. 

The  spirit  of  practical  statesmanship  in  which  this  young 
man — Demosthenes  was  a  little  more  than  thirty  years  of  age 
— felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  exercise  his  eloquence,  is 
well  exhibited  in  this  speech.  Having  pointed  out  the  mili- 
tary provision  deemed  by  him  necessary,  he  next  proceeds 
to  discuss  the  important  question  of  raising   the    required 


Demosthenes.  261 


money.  Money  enough  lay  idle  in  the  public  treasury,  but 
that  money  was  appropriated  beforehand  to  purveying  theat- 
rical amusement  for  the  populace.  And  there  was  a  law  for- 
bidding, under  penalty,  any  one  to  move  a  diversion  of  that 
fund  to  other  use.  This  will  be  enough  to  explain  the  gin- 
gerly handling  of  so  delicate  a  topic  exemplified  in  the  fol- 
lowing passage,  continuing  the  speech  of  Demosthenes  from 
the  point  at  which  it  was  interrupted  above  : 

And  now  as  to  the  expense  of  these  preparations.  You  are  already 
provided  for  the  payment  of  your  forces  better  than  any  other  people. 
This  provision  is  distributed  among  yourselves  in  the  manner  most 
agreeable,  but  if  you  restore  it  to  the  army,  the  supplies  will  be  com- 
plete without  any  addition,  if  not,  an  addition  will  be  necessary,  or  the 
whole,  rather,  will  remain  to  be  raised.  How  then,  I  may  be  asked,  do 
you  move  for  a  decree  to  apply  those  funds  to  the  military  service  ?  By 
no  means  !  it  is  my  opinion,  indeed,  that  an  army  must  be  raised,  that 
this  money  really  belongs  to  the  army,  and  that  the  same  regulation 
which  entitles  our  citizens  to  receive,  should  oblige  them  also  to  act. 
At  present,  you  expend  the  sums  on  entertainments,  without  regard  to 
your  affairs.  It  remains,  then,  that  a  general  contribution  be  raised  ;  a 
great  one,  if  a  great  one  be  required  ;  a  small  one,  if  such  may  be  suf- 
ficient. Money  must  be  found.  Without  it  nothing  can  be  effected. 
Various  schemes  are  proposed  by  various  persons.  Do  you  make  that 
choice  which  you  think  most  advantageous,  and  while  you  have  an  oppor- 
tunity, exeit  yourselves  in  the  care  of  your  interests. 

It  is  worthy  your  attention  to  consider  how  the  affairs  of  Philip  are  at 
this  time  circumstanced.  For  they  are  by  no  means  so  well  disposed, 
so  very  flourishing,  as  an  inattentive  observer  would  pronounce.  Nor 
would  he  have  engaged  in  this  war  at  all,  had  he  thought  he  should 
have  been  obliged  to  maintain  it.  He  hoped  that  the  moment  he  ap- 
peared, all  things  would  fall  before  him.  But  these  hopes  are  vain. 
And  this  disappointment,  in  the  first  place,  troubles  and  dispirits  him. 
Then  the  Thessalians  alarm  him,  a  people  remarkable  for  their  perfidy 
on  all  occasions,  and  to  all  persons.  And  just  as  they  have  ever  proved, 
even  so  he  finds  them  now.  For  they  have  resolved  in  council  to  de- 
mand the  restitution  of  Pagasse,  and  have  opposed  his  attempt  to  fortify 
Magnesia ;  and  I  am  informed  that  for  the  future  he  is  to  be  excluded 
from  their  ports  and  markets,  as  these  conveniences  belong  to  the  states 
of  Thessaly,  and  are  not  to  be  intercepted  by  Philip.     And  should  he 


262  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

he  deprived  of  such  a  fund  of  wealth,  he  must  be  greatly  straitened  to 
support  his  foreign  troops.  Besides  this,  we  must  suppose  that  the 
Pseonians  and  the  Illyrians,  and  all  the  others,  would  prefer  freedom  and 
independence  to  a  state  of  slavery.  They  are  not  accustomed  to  sub- 
jection, and  the  insolence  of  this  man,  it  is  said,  knows  no  bounds ;  nor 
is  this  improbable,  for  great  and  unexpected  success  is  apt  to  hurry  weak 
minds  into  extravagances.  Hence  it  often  proves  much  more  difficult  to 
maintain  acquisitions  than  to  acquire.  It  is  your  part,  therefore,  to  re- 
gard the  time  of  his  distress  as  your  most  favorable  opportunity.  Im- 
prove it  to  the  utmost,  send  out  your  embassies,  take  the  field  yourselves, 
and  excite  a  general  ardor  abroad,  ever  considering  how  readily  Philip 
would  attack  us,  if  he  ^yere  favored  by  any  incident  like  this,  if  a  war 
had  broken  out  on  our  borders.  And  would  it  not  be  shameful  to  want 
the  resolution  to  bring  that  distress  on  him,  which,  had  it  been  equally 
in  his  power,  he  certainly  would  have  made  you  feel. 

This,  too,  demands  your  attention,  Athenians  !  that  you  are  now  to 
determine  whether  it  be  most  expedient  to  carry  the  war  into  his  coun- 
try, or  to  fight  him  here.  If  Olynthus  be  defended,  Macedon  will  be  the 
seat  of  war,  you  may  harass  his  kingdom,  and  enjoy  your  own  territories 
free  from  apprehensions.  But  should  that  nation  be  subdued  by  Philip, 
who  will  oppose  his  marching  hither  ?  Will  the  Thebans  ?  Let  it  not 
be  thought  severe,  when  I  affirm  that  they  will  join  readily  in  the  in- 
vasion, Will  the  Phocians  ?  a  people  scarcely  able  to  defend  their  own 
country,  without  your  assistance.  Will  any  others  ?  But,  sir,  cries  some 
one,  he  would  make  no  such  attempt.  This  would  be  the  greatest  of 
absurdities,  not  to  execute  those  threats,  when  he  has  full  power,  which, 
now  when  they  appear  so  idle  and  extravagant,  he  yet  dares  to  utter. 
And  I  think  you  are  not  yet  to  learn  how  great  would  be  the  difference 
between  our  engaging  him  here,  and  there.  Were  we  to  be  only  thirty 
days  abroad,  and  to  draw  all  the  necessaries  of  the  camp  from  our  own 
lands,  even  were  there  no  enemy  to  ravage  them,  the  damage  would,  in 
my  opinion,  amount  to  more  than  the  whole  expense  of  the  late  war. 
Add  then  the  presence  of  an  enemy,  and  how  greatly  must  the 
calamity  be  increased  ?  but,  farther,  add  the  infamy,  and  to  those  who 
judge  rightly,  no  distress  can  be  more  grievous  than  the  scandal  of  mis- 
conduct. 

It  is  incumbent,  therefore,  upon  us  all,  justly  influenced  by  these  con- 
siderations, to  unite  vigorously  in  the  common  cause,  and  repel  the  danger 
that  threatens  this  territory.  Let  the  rich  exert  themselves  on  this  occa- 
sion; that, by  contributing  a  small  portion  of  their  affluence, they  may  secure 
the  peaceful  possession  of  the  rest.    Let  those  who  are  of  the  age  for  mill- 


Demosthenes.  263 


tary  duty;  that  by  learning  the  art  of  war  in  Philip's  dominions,  they 
may  become  formidable  defenders  of  their  native  land.  Let  our  orators  ; 
that  they  may  safely  submit  their  conduct  to  the  public  inspection  ;  for 
your  judgment  of  their  administrations  will  ever  be  determined  by  the 
event  of  things.     And  may  we  all  contribute  to  render  that  favorable  ! 

We  have  used  Mr.  Leland's  translation,  and  in  doing  so 
have  ventured  to  make  him  say  'Mias  "  instead  of  "hath," 
introducing  also  a  few  other  like  changes  of  verbal  form — to 
remove  a  certain  archaic  quaintness  which  we  thought  better 
dispensed  with.  (We  shall  presently  take  a  similar  liberty 
with  Mr.  Kennedy's  translation  of  the  Oration  on  the  Crown.) 
Mr.  Leland  translates  very  well,  but,  alas!  what  rendering 
in  English  could  possibly  do  justice  to  the  incomparable 
original  }  Every  sentence  in  Demosthenes  lives  as  if  it  were 
animated  with  an  independent  life  of  its  own.  The  balance 
of  member  against  member,  the  epigrammatic  point,  the  con- 
densation— as  of  liquid  made  solid  under  pressure — the  nerve, 
the  vigor,  the  movement,  the  inimitable  art  of  arrangement, 
the  carefully  happy  choice  of  words,  the  rhythm,  the  har- 
mony, the  growth,  the  culmination,  the  close — like  the  blow 
perhaps  of  a  mace,  or  like  the  breaking  of  a  breaker  rolling 
in  on  the  beach — all  this  is  of  Demosthenes,  and  Demos- 
thenes is  lost  when  you  lose  it,  as  lose  it  you  must,  in 
translation. 

"Philippic  "  is  a  word  in  common  English  use  to  denote  a 
piece  of  violent  invective.  Emphatically  such  was  indeed 
the  spirit  of  Cicero's  speeches  against  Antony  called,  in  imi- 
tation of  the  Greek,  Philippics.  The  different  character  of 
the  Philippics  of  Demosthenes  is  very  well  seen  in  the  fore- 
going specimen.  There  is  in  some  of  them  more  energy 
of  personal  abuse  directed  against  Philip.  But  mere  brute 
denunciation  is  by  no  means  the  staple  of  these  remark- 
able speeches  of  Demosthenes.  The  one  note  on  which 
all  of  them  alike  are  keyed  is,  March  against  Philip!  As  to 
the  particular  measure  of  support,  in  this  crisis,  for  Olynthus. 


264  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


Demosthenes  was  but  moderately  successful  in  persuading 
his  countrymen.  A  few  mercenary  troops  first  were  sent  to 
the  aid  of  the  distressed  city,  and  then  at  last — too  late — a 
body  of  Athenian  soldiers.  Olynthus  was  destroyed,  and 
there  was  no  breakwater  left  between  the  rising  Macedoni- 
an tide  of  conquest  and  Athens.  Demosthenes  still  fought 
Philip,  might  and  main.  But  that  rising  tide  was  too  strong 
for  him.  It  was  helped  by  the  stars  in  their  courses.  It 
swept  over  Athens,  and  Athens  was  free  and  great  no  more. 

Some  ancients  and  some  moderns  have  thought  that  De- 
mosthenes's  hostility  to  Philip — in  other  words,  his  whole 
political  career — however  noble  abstractly,  was  practically  a 
mistake,  an  anachronism.  The  great  Greek  orator,  or  rather 
great  Greek  oration-writer,  I-soc'ra-tes,  was  disposed  to  favor 
Philip's  taking  the  headship  of  Greece.  He,  it  is  said,  died 
at  ninety-nine,  of  grief  over  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Chae- 
ro-nei'a.      This    explains   the    allusion    in    that    sonnet   of 

Milton's : 

as  that  dishonest  victory 
At  Chaeronea  fatal  to  liberty 
Killed  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent. 

Po-lyb'i-us,  the  Greek  historian,  disapproved  the  statesman- 
ship of  Demosthenes.  So  in  modern  times  did,  for  example, 
the  French  Victor  Cousin.  Some  (Cousin,  for  one)  even 
go  so  far  as  to  question  the  high  and  pure  patriotism  of  the 
orator,  conceiving  that  ^schines  and  Demosthenes  are 
pretty  much  on  one  moral  level,  and  that  a  level  not  greatly 
above  the  common  low  level  of  the  Athens  of  their  times. 
These  last  find  personal  self-seeking,  not  love  of  country,  to 
have  been  the  chief  motive  with  Demosthenes  and  with  M%- 
chines  alike.  According  to  their  view,  the  mutual  strife  of  the 
two  Greeks  was  for  popular  favor,  to  be  won  through  oratory. 
Let  us  refuse  to  believe  it.  Let  us  hold  to  our  ideal  De- 
mosthenes. Let  us  feel  it  to  have  been  admirable  in  him, 
and  a  thing   not   altogether   in   vain,  that    he    grappled    so 


Dejnosthe?ies.  265 


fiercely  with  Philip  in  a  struggle  which  was  certain  to  bring, 
not  the  king,  but  the  orator,  at  length  to  the  ground.  The 
future  was  undoubtedly  Philip's,  and  after  Philip,  his  son 
Alexander's,  and  after  Alexander,  in  due  time  the  Romans'. 
But  meanwhile,  who  would  not  have  the  old  order,  the 
Greece  of  ancient  days,  at  least  lift  up  its  protest  against 
perishing,  and,  if  perish  it  must,  perish  in  a  manner  worthy 
of  Marathon,  of  Thermopylae,  of  Salamis .?  And  not  Pericles 
himself  could  have  asked  to  see  his  country  expire  more 
nobly  than  in  Demosthenes  the  orator  she  expired. 

We  advance  now  to  the  presentation  of  Demosthenes's 
Oration  on  the  Crown. 

This  oration  takes  its  name  from  its  object.  Its  object 
was  the  vindicating  for  himself  by  Demosthenes  of  his  just 
title  by  merit  to  receive  a  civic  crown,  proposed  for  him, 
from  the  hands  of  his  Athenian  fellow-citizens.  The  proposal 
was  made  in  a  decree  moved  by  the  orator's  friend,  Ctesi- 
phon  (Tess').  ^schines  stood  forward  and  opposed  the  meas- 
ure. But  he  did  not  attack  Demosthenes  directly.  He  in- 
dicted Ctesiphon  for  offering  an  illegal  decree.  The  decree 
for  crowning  Demosthenes  was,  so  ^schines  charged,  illegal 
in  several  respects.  For  one  thing,  the  laws  forbade  crowning 
a  public  official  that  was  still  responsible  to  the  state  for 
submitting  accounts  of  government  money  expended  by  him. 
For  a  second  thing,  there  was  an  enactment  against  crown- 
ing any  one,  as  it  was  now  proposed  to  crown  Demosthenes, 
in  the  theatre  at  the  exhibition  of  the  new  tragedies.  For  a 
third  thing,  and  this  in  reality  the  chief  thing  of  all,  it  was 
unlawful  to  make  false  allegations  in  a  decree  proposed — as 
in  the  present  case  was  done  by  Ctesiphon,  in  declaring 
Demosthenes  a  citizen  worthy  of  a  crown. 

This  opposition  of  ^.schines  was  opposition,  in  a  sense, 
after  the  fact.  For  the  decree  of  Ctesiphon  had  been  ap- 
proved by  the  Council  of  Five  Hundred,  and  then  formally 
ratified  and  passed  by  the  Assembly.  It  was  a  law.  But 
12 


266  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

before  the  law  was.  carried  into  effect,  that  is,  before  Demos- 
thenes was  actually  crowned,  ^schines  intervened  with  his 
indictment  against  Ctesiphon.  This  postponed  the  honoring 
of  Demosthenes;  for,  pending  the  decision  on  the  indict- 
ment, the  ceremony  of  coronation  must  wait.  And  the  Dio- 
nysiac  festival  was  already  too  close  at  hand  for  a  decision 
to  be  had  before  that  occasion  arrived. 

The  indictment  against  Ctesiphon,  having  served  its  first 
purpose  in  keeping  the  olive  chaplet  interwoven  with  gold 
from  the  brow  of  Demosthenes,  was  permitted  by  its  author 
to  sleep  seven  or  eight  years.  Events,  by  the  end  of  that 
time,  were  probably  judged  to  have  created  a  conjuncture 
favorable  to  the  final  crushing  of  Demosthenes.  Victorious 
Philip  had  fallen  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin,  and  Alexander, 
succeeding  prematurely  to  the  throne,  had  disappointed  the 
hopes  and  falsified  the  predictions  of  Demosthenes  by  exhib- 
iting himself  far  more  formidable  than  even  his  father.  He 
had  erased  Thebes  from  the  face  of  the  earth — with  a  fine 
magnanimity,  fated  to  be  famous,  ostentatiously  leaving  the 
poet  Pindar's  house  untouched  amid  the  general  ruin. 
Athens  fell  abject  at  the  feet  of  the  young  Macedonian  con- 
queror, who  demanded  from  her  the  surrender  to  himself  of 
her  chief  orators,  Demosthenes  of  course  included.  Alex- 
ander was  persuaded  out  of  this  extreme  severity — placable 
perhaps  because  larger  affairs  claimed  his  attention.  He 
swept  resistlessly  into  Asia,  and  established  himself  upon  the 
throne  of  Darius.  The  Lacedsemonian  king,  Agis,  made  a 
rally  against  him  in  his  absence,  but  was  overwhelmed  and 
slain.  Greece  prostrate  thus  under  Alexander's  heel,  now 
was  the  hour  and  power  of  ^schines.  He  renewed  the 
prosecution  of  Ctesiphon,  and  the  duel  of  vEschines  with 
Demosthenes  was  finally  and  fatally  joined. 

Fatally — but  not  after  all  for  Demosthenes.  It  enhances 
inconceivably  the  marvel  and  the  magnificence  of  Demos- 
thenes's  triumph,  that  he  should  have  triumphed  handicapped 


Demosthenes.  267 


as  he  was,  and  against  such  frightful  odds  of  adverse  circum- 
stance. For  not  only  against  odds  of  adverse  circumstance, 
but  heavily  handicapped  by  his  own  past,  Demosthenes  went 
into  this  oratoric  struggle  for  life  or  death  with  ^schines. 
Demosthenes  had  said  foolish  things,  and  done  weak  things, 
that  could  not  be  forgotten.  He  had  denounced  Philip  as  a 
drunken  barbarian  brute,  and  Philip  had  taken  a  princely 
revenge  on  the  orator.  He  had  behaved  himself  toward 
Athens  in  defeat  with  signal  magnanimity.  He  had  carefully 
sent  back  to  the  humiliated  city  her  dead,  and  her  soldiers 
made  prisoners  he  had  released  without  ransom.  Demos- 
thenes had  publicly  called  Alexander  a  boy  and  a  madcap, 
and  Demosthenes's  madcap  boy  had  straightway  proceeded 
to  put  the  world  under  his  feet. 

But  Demosthenes's  weakness  in  conduct  was  worse  than 
his  folly  in  speech.  The  brave  orator  had,  so  it  was  re- 
ported, proved  a  pusillanimous  soldier.  Demosthenes  had 
intrepidly  shaken  his  fist  at  Macedon  from  the  bema,  but  he 
fled  from  his  post  like  a  coward  in  battle.  The  patriot,  too, 
that  had  so  loftily  spurned  Macedonian  gold — in  the  Assem- 
bly— had  let  Persian  gold  stick  to  his  palm — in  the  closet.  It 
probably  was  not  a  bribe  accepted,  but  it  undeniably  was 
foreign  money  received.  It  gave  Demosthenes's  enemies  a 
chance.  History,  alas!  leaves  us  few  flawless  ideals  in  hu- 
man character  for  our  worship.  Indeed,  One  only  could  say, 
Which  of  you  convinceth  me  of  sin  .?  But  there  is  in  this  case 
a  certain  unsatisfying  compensation.  What  is  deducted  from 
Demosthenes  the  man  is  added  to  Demosthenes  the  orator.  It 
was  against  all  this  disadvantage  that  Demosthenes  was  over- 
whelmingly adjudged  to  deserve  his  crown.  What  a  master 
of  men  by  speech  was  this  last  of  the  Athenians !  But  some- 
thing of  a  manager,  something  of  a  politician,  Demosthenes 
must  also  have  been.  The  confident  tone  of  his  speech  in 
self-vindication  implies,  we  think,  consciousness,  on  his  part, 
of  strong  partisan  support  in  the  audience. 


268  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

It  will  be  more  satisfactory  to  let  our  readers  prepare 
themselves  for  appreciating  Demosthenes's  defense,  by  first 
learning  something  of  ^schines's  attack.  The  legal  argu- 
ment we  shall  omit  from  both  speeches,  ^schines,  technic- 
ally, had  much  the  better  of  Demosthenes.  The  law  was 
clear  for  the  conviction  of  Ctesiphon.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  luminous  or  more  cogent  in  reasoning  than  ^s- 
chines's  presentation  of  the  legal  points  in  the  case,  ^schines 
sought  to  make  Demosthenes  in  replying  follow  his  own  order 
in  treatment  of  the  topics  discussed.  The  attempt  was  wise 
in  ^schines,  but  for  Demosthenes  to  do  so  would  have  been 
fatal.  Demosthenes  really  had  little  to  say  in  refutation  of 
-^schines  on  the  points  of  law  involved.  He  did  the  only 
thing  open  to  him  that  gave  any  promise  of  success.  He 
made  his  hearers  forget  the  law,  by  engaging  them  at  once  in 
discussions  of  measures,  persons,  and  events. 

The  following  passage,  taken  out  of  the  midst  of  the  speech 
of  ^schines,  will  give  our  readers  some  idea  of  the  stinging 
point  with  which  this  consummate  orator  could  press  his  tre- 
mendous advantage  upon  his  antagonist.  (It  is  necessary 
only  to  explain,  that  after  the  battle  of  Chaeroneia,  Demosthe- 
nes, notwithstanding  his  inglorious  conduct  on  the  field,  was 
chosen  to  pronounce  the  set  formal  oration  on  the  fallen.)  No- 
tice the  frequent  lively  shifting  of  aim,  in  the  orator's  words, 
back  and  forth,  between  Demosthenes  himself  directly  accost- 
ed in  the  second  person,  and  then  again  the  listening  assem- 
bly similarly  addressed.  The  audience,  by  the  way,  was  made 
up  primarily  of  the  Five  Hundred  composing  the  tribunal, 
and  secondarily  of  a  number  to  be  counted  perhaps  by  tens 
of  thousands  flocking  from  all  parts  of  Greece  to  witness  that 
great  gladiatorial  exhibition  of  oratory,  ^schines  draws  an 
effective  contrast  between  the  spectacle  presented  when  or- 
phans by  battle  stood,  according  to  ancient  custom,  in  the 
theatre,  solemnly  introduced  by  the  herald  as  children  of  the 
state — between  this  spectacle  and  that  proposed  by  the  decree 


^s  chines.  269 


of  Ctesiphon,  namely,  Demosthenes,  maker  of  orphans  by  bat- 
tle, the  coward,  the  miscreant,  standing  in  the  same  theatre  to 
be  honored  with  a  crown.    We  give  the  passage  : 

And  here  let  us  recall  to  mind  those  gallant  men,  whom  he  forced 
out  to  manifest  destruction,  without  one  sacred  rite  happily  performed, 
one  propitious  omen  to  assure  them  of  success;  and  yet,  when  they  had 
fallen  in  battle,  presumed  to  ascend  their  monument  with  those  coward 
feet  that  fled  from  their  post,  and  pronounced  his  encomiums  on  their 
merit.  But  O  thou,  who,  on  every  occasion  of  great  and  important 
action,  hast  proved  of  all  mankind  the  most  worthless,  in  the  insolence 
of  language  the  most  astonishing,  canst  thou  attempt,  in  the  face  of  these 
thy  fellow-citizens,  to  claim  the  honor  of  a  crown,  for  the  misfortunes 
in  which  thou  hast  plunged  thy  city  ?  Or,  should  he  claim  it,  can-  you 
restrain  your  indignation,  and  has  the  memory  of  your  slaughtered 
countrymen  perished  with  them  ?  Indulge  me  for  a  moment,  and 
imagine  that  you  are  now  not  in  this  tribunal,  but  in  the  theatre, 
imagine  that  you  see  the  herald  approaching,  and  the  proclamation  pre- 
scribed in  this  decree,  on  the  point  of  being  delivered,  and  then  consider 
whether  will  the  friends  of  the  deceased  shed  more  tears  at  the  tragedies, 
at  the  pathetic  stories  of  the  great  characters  to  be  presented  on  the 
stage,  or  at  the  insensibility  of  their  country  ?  What  inhabitant  of 
Greece,  what  human  creature,  who  has  imbibed  the  least  share  of  liberal 
sentiments,  must  not  feel  the  deepest  sorrow,  when  he  reflects  on  one 
transaction  which  he  must  have  seen  in  the  theatre,  when  he  remembers, 
if  he  remembers  nothing  else,  that  on  festivals  like  these,  when  the 
tragedies  were  to  be  presented,  (in  those  times  when  the  state  was  well 
governed  and  directed  by  faithful  ministers,)  a  herald  appeared,  and 
introducing  those  orphans  whose  fathers  had  died  in  battle,  now  arrived 
at  maturity,  and  dressed  in  complete  armor,  made  a  proclamation  the 
most  noble  and  the  most  eff"ectual  to  excite  the  mind  to  glorious  actions; 
that  these  youths,  whose  fathers  lost  their  lives  in  fighting  bravely  for 
their  country,  the  people  had  maintained  to  this  their  age  of  maturity; 
that  now,  having  furnished  them  with  complete  suits  of  armor,  they 
dismiss  them,  with  prayers  for  their  prosperity,  to  attend  to  their  respect- 
ive aff"airs,  and  invite  them  to  aspire  to  the  highest  offices  of  the  state. 

Such  were  the  proclamations  in  old  times,  but  such  are  not  now  heard. 
And,  were  the  herald  to  introduce  the  person  who  had  made  these  chil- 
dren orphans,  what  could  he  say  or  what  could  he  proclaim  ?  Should 
he  speak  in  the  form  prescribed  in  this  decree,  yet  the  odious  truth 
would  still  force  itself  upon  you,  it  would  seem  to  strike  your  ears  with 


270  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

a  language  different  from  that  of  the  herald.  It  would  tell  you,  that  the 
Athenian  people  crowned  this  man,  who  scarcely  deserves  the  name  of 
a  man,  on  account  of  his  virtue,  though  a  wretch  the  most  abandoned, 
and  on  account  of  his  magnanimity,  though  a  coward  and  deserter  of  his 
post.  Do  not,  Athenians,  I  conjure  you  by  all  the  powers  of  heaven,  do 
not  erect  a  trophy  in  your  theatre,  to  perpetuate  your  own  disgrace. 
Do  not  expose  the  weak  conduct  of  your  country,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Greeks,  do  not  recall  all  their  grievous  and  desperate  misfortunes  to  the 
minds  of  the  wretched  Thebans,  who,  when  driven  from  their  habitations 
by  this  man,  were  received  within  these  walls,  whose  temples,  whose 
children,  whose  sepulchral  monuments,  were  destroyed  by  the  corruption 
of  Demosthenes  and  the  Macedonian  gold. 

Here  is  ^schines's  fling  at  Demosthenes  for  his  unhappy- 
sentence  on  Alexander : 

He  called  Alexander  a  Mar-gi'tes,  and  had  the  presumption  to  assert 
that  he  would  never  stir  from  Macedon,  for  that  he  would  be  satisfied 
with  parading  through  his  capital,  and  there  tearing  up  his  victims  in 
the  search  of  happy  omens.  And  this,  said  he,  I  declare,  not  from  con- 
jecture, but  from  a  clear  conviction  of  this  great  truth,  that  glory  is  not 
to  be  purchased  but  by  blood.  The  wretch  !  whose  veins  have  no  blood, 
who  judged  of  Alexander,  not  from  the  temper  of  Alexander,  but  from 
his  own  dastardly  soul. 

What  venom  in  that  last  exclamation  !  But  ^schines  is  by 
no  means  mere  mordant  sarcasm.  He  has  passages,  if  not 
of  real,  at  least  of  well-simulated,  moral  sentiment  and 
statesman-like  gravity.  Take  the  following  paragraphs  as 
instances : 

And,  now  that  I  have  mentioned  crowns  and  public  honors,  while 
it  yet  rests  upon  my  mind,  let  me  recommend  this  precaution.  It  must 
be  your  part,  Athenians,  to  put  an  end  to  this  frequency  of  public 
honors,  these  precipitate  grants  of  crowns,  else  they  who  obtain  them 
will  owe  you  no  acknowledgment,  nor  shall  the  state  receive  the  least 
advantage,  for  you  never  can  make  bad  men  better,  and  those  of  real 
merit  must  be  cast  into  the  utmost  dejection.  Of  this  truth,  I  shall  con- 
vince you  by  the  most  powerful  arguments.  Suppose  a  man  should  ask, 
at  what  time  this  state  supported  the  most  illustrious  reputation,  in  the 
present  days  or  in  those  of  our  ancestors  ?  With  one  voice  you  would 
reply,  *  In  the  days  of  our  ancestors.'     At  what  time  did  our  citizens 


^schines.  271 


display  the  greatest  merit  ?  Then,  or  now  ?  They  were  then  eminent, 
now  much  less  distinguished.  At  what  time  were  rewards,  crowns,  proc- 
lamations, and  public  honors  of  every  kind  most  frequent  ?  Then,  or 
now  ?  Then  they  were  rare  and  truly  valuable,  then  the  name  of  merit  bore 
the  highest  lustre,  but  now  it  is  tarnished  and  effaced,  while  your  honors 
are  conferred  by  course  and  custom,  not  with  judgment  and  distinction. 

It  may  possibly  seem  unaccountable,  that  rewards  ai'e  now  more  fre- 
quent, yet  that  public  affairs  were  then  more  flourishing,  that  our  citi- 
zens are  now  less  worthy,  but  were  then  of  real  eminence.  This  is  a 
difficulty  which  I  shall  endeavor  to  obviate.  Do  you  imagine,  Athe- 
nians, that  any  man  whatever  would  engage  in  the  games  held  on  our 
festivals,  or  in  any  others,  where  the  victors  receive  a  crown,  in  the 
exercises  of  wrestling,  or  in  any  of  the  several  athletic  contests,  if  the 
crown  was  to  be  conferred,  not  on  the  most  worthy,  but  on  the  man  of 
greatest  interest  ?  Surely  no  man  would  engage.  But  now  as  the  re- 
ward of  such  their  victory  is  rare,  hardly  to  be  obtained,  truly  honorable, 
and  never  to  be  forgotten  ;  there  are  champions  found,  ready  to  submit 
to  the  severest  preparatory  discipline,  and  to  encounter  all  the  dangers  of 
the  contest.  Imagine,  then,  that  political  merit  is  a  kind  of  game, 
which  you  are  appointed  to  direct,  and  consider  that,  if  you  grant  the 
prizes  to  a  few,  and  those  the  most  worthy,  and  on  such  conditions  as 
the  laws  prescribe,  you  will  have  many  champions  in  this  contest  of 
merit.  But,  if  you  gratify  any  man  that  pleases,  or  those  who  can  secure 
the  strongest  interest,  you  will  be  the  means  of  corrupting  the  very  best 
natural  dispositions.  .   .  . 

In  a  democratic  state,  every  man  has  a  sort  of  kingly  power,  founded 
on  the  laws,  and  on  our  public  acts,  but  when  he  resigns  these  into  the 
hands  of  another,  he  himself  subverts  his  own  sovereignty.  And  then 
the  consciousness  of  that  oath,  by  which  his  sentence  was  to  have  been 
directed,  pursues  him  with  remorse. 

The  very  close  of  the  speech  of  ^schines  is  sadly  marked 
with  bathos : 

And  now,  bear  witness  for  me,  thou  Earth  !  thou  Sun  !  O  Virtue  and 
Intelligence  !  and  thou,  O  Erudition  !  which  teaches  us  the  just  distinction 
between  vice  and  goodness,  I  have  stood  up,  I  have  spoken  in  the  cause 
of  Justice.  If  I  have  supported  my  prosecution  with  a  dignity  befitting 
its  importance,  I  have  spoken  as  my  wishes  dictated,  if  too  deficiently, 
as  my  abilities  admitted.  Let  what  has  now  been  offered,  and  what 
your  own  thoughts  must  supply,  be  duly  weighed,  and  pronounce  such 
a  sentence  as  justice  and  the  interests  of  the  state  demand. 


272  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

That  apostrophe  to  Earth,  Sun,  Virtue,  Intelligence,  Erudi- 
tion, alas,  why  should  ^schines  have  suffered  it  to  escape 
him  ?  There — as  it  were  by  some  fatal  necessity  of  self-ex- 
pression compelling  the  orator — there  it  is,  staring  posterity 
in  the  face,  a  brand  forever  on  his  forehead  so  plain  that  a 
legend  in  words  could  hardly  be  plainer — '  Know  all  men  that 
I,  ^schines,  am  at  bottom  chiefly  a  make-believe.' 

We  write  thus,  but  not  without  a  certain  misgiving.  We 
try  to  be  true  to  our  individual  judgment,  and  we  try  to 
make  our  individual  judgment  true  to  the  facts  of  every  case 
with  which  we  deal.  But  how  can  we  be  entirely  sure  that 
we  are  not  unconsciously  warped  by  general  opinion — when 
we  incline,  as  we  do,  in  favor  of  Demosthenes  against 
^schines  .^  We  have,  we  confess,  our  fits  of  fearing  that 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  these  two  great  orators  was 
a  great  man  or  a  great  patriot.  But  then  again  we  rally  to 
hold  by  Demosthenes,  at  the  necessary  cost  of  giving  up 
^schines. 

The  arrangement,  the  occasional  recapitulation,  the  artful 
return  to  telling  topics,  are  admirable  in  ^schines.  But  if 
the  arrangement  in  ^schines  marks  him  a  master  in  the  art 
of  discourse,  no  less  the  lack  of  arrangement  in  Demosthenes 
does  likewise  for  him.  For  in  no  other  way  than  by  confusion 
of  order  could  Demosthenes  effectually  mask  the  weakness 
of  his  cause — its  technical  weakness,  we  mean.  What  ac- 
cordingly he  does  is  to  keep  his  hearers  constantly  so  em- 
ployed in  thought  with  things  which  make  for  himself,  or 
things  which  make  against  his  antagonist,  that  they  willingly 
forget  the  technical  points  at  which  he  is  helplessly  vulnera- 
ble. Regarded  as  an  end  in  itself,  Demosthenes's  oration  is 
irredeemably  bad  by  confusion  in  arrangement.  Regarded 
as  means  to  an  end,  the  oration,  by  virtue  of  that  very  con- 
fusion in  arrangement,  is  transcendently  good. 

Demosthenes  begins  modestly,  gravely,  with  winning  appeal 
and  deprecation  in  his  tone.     But  his  speech  is  very  long, 


Demosthe7ies.  273 


and  we  shall  not  be  able  to  indicate  fully  the  course  of  it. 
Let  us  strike  into  the  midst  —  at  this  point,  bearing  on 
^schines's  conclusion  : 

But  I  must,  it  seems — though  not  naturally  fond  of  railing,  yet  on 
account  of  the  calumnies  uttered  by  my  opponent — in  reply  to  so  many 
falsehoods,  just  mention  some  leading  particulars  concerning  him,  and 
show  who  he  is,  and  from  whom  descended,  that  so  readily  begins  using 
hard  words — and  what  language  he  carps  at,  after  uttering  such  as  any 
decent  man  would  have  shuddered  to  pronounce.  Why,  if  my  accuser 
had  been  y^acus,  or  Rhadamanthus,  or  Minos,  instead  of  a  prater,  a 
hack  of  the  market,  a  pestilent  scribbler,  I  don't  think  he  would  have 
spoken  such  things,  or  found  such  offensive  terms,  shouting,  as  in  a 
tragedy,  *  O  Earth  !  O  Sun  !  O  Virtue  ! '  and  the  like  ;  and  again  appeal- 
ing to  Intelligence  and  Education,  by  which  the  honorable  is  distin- 
guished from  the  base — all  this  you  undoubtedly  heard  from  his  lips. 
Accursed  one  !  What  have  you  or  yours  to  do  with  virtue  ?  How  should 
you  discern  what  is  honorable  or  otherwise?  How  were  you  ever  quali- 
fied ?  What  right  have  you  to  talk  about  education  ?  Those  who  really 
possess  it  would  never  say  as  much  of  themselves,  but  rather  blush  if 
another  did  ;  those  who  are  destitute  like  you,  but  make  pretensions  to 
it  from  stupidity,  annoy  the  hearers  by  their  talk,  without  getting  the 
reputation  which  they  desire. 

Demosthenes  then  goes  into  the  life  and  character  of 
^schines.  Whatever  strength  of  instinctive  repugnance 
Demosthenes  really  felt  to  indulging  in  personal  abuse,  he 
certainly  overcame  his  repugnance  with  swimming  success. 
^schines  is  treated  to  a  view  of  himself  that  he  must  have 
needed  all  his  alleged  effrontery  to  face  without  flinching. 
On  the  whole,  it  is  rather  depressing — the  spectacle  here  ex- 
hibited of  scurrilous  personal  epithets  bandied  between  these 
two  cultivated  Athenians.  The  contrast  in  tone  is  enormous 
that  separates  these  two  speeches,  from  the  two,  for  instance, 
in  which  Hayne  and  Webster  fought  each  other  in  the  Sen- 
ate of  the  United  States.  True,  the  ancient  cause  debated 
was,  in  its  essential  nature,  more  personal  than  the  mod- 
ern. And  Christianity  is  a  diffusiv,e  moral  influence  very 
different  from  Olympianism.  Yet  after  just  discrimina- 
12* 


274  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

tions  made,  there  still  is  left  a  great  remainder  of  moral 
superiority  in  favor  of  the  American  orators,  to  be  credited, 
we  think,  to  their  individual  characters.  At  least  this  is  true 
for  the  case  of  Webster. 

From  personal  abuse  of  ^schines,  Demosthenes  makes  an 
easy  transition  to  a  detail  of  Hellenic  history — in  which  we 
could  not  hope  greatly  to  interest  our  readers.  One  graphic 
narrative,  however,  of  his — a  famous  passage  of  oratoric  de- 
scription— will  be  read  by  every  body  with  pleasure.  How  the 
life  of  Athens  is  made  to  live  again  in  the  following  vivid 
verbal  photograph  of  the  circumstances  attending  the  ar- 
rival in  the  city  of  news  that  El'a-te'a,  a  vital  strategic  point 
in  the  war  against  Macedon,  was  taken  by  Philip  ! 

It  was  evening.  A  person  came  with  a  message  to  the  presidents, 
that  Elatea  was  taken.  They  rose  from  supper  immediately,  drove  off 
the  people  from  their  market-stalls,  and  set  fire  to  the  wicker-frames  ; 
others  sent  for  the  generals  and  called  the  trumpeter  ;  and  the  city  waa 
full  of  commotion.  The  next  morning  at  day-break  the  presidents  sum- 
moned the  Council  to  their  hall,  and  you  went  to  the  Assembly,  and  be- 
fore they  could  introduce  or  prepare  the  question,  the  whole  people  were 
up  in  their  seats.  When  the  Council  had  entered,  and  the  presidents  had 
reported  their  intelligence  and  presented  the  courier,  and  he  had  made 
his  statement,  the  crier  asked — "  Who  wishes  to  speak?" — and  no  one 
came  forw^ard.  The  crier  put  the  question  repeatedly — still  no  man 
rose,  though  all  the  generals  were  present,  and  all  the  orators,  and  our 
country  with  her  common  voice  called  for  some  one  to  speak  and  save 
her — for  when  the  crier  raises  his  voice  according  to  law,  it  may  justly 
be  deemed  the  common  voice  of  our  country.  If  those  who  desired  the 
salvation  of  Athens  were  the  proper  parties  to  come  forward,  all  of  you 
and  the  other  Athenians  would  have  risen  and  mounted  the  platform  ; 
for  I  am  sure  you  all  desired  her  salvation — if  those  of  greatest  wealth, 
the  three  hundred — if  those  who  were  both,  friendly  to  the  state  and 
wealthy,  the  men  who  afterward  gave  such  ample  donations ;  for 
patriotism  and  wealth  produced  the  gift.  But  that  occasion,  that 
day,  as  it  seems,  called  not  only  for  a  patriot  and  a  wealthy  man, 
but  for  one  who  had  closely  followed  the  proceedings  from  their  com- 
mencement, and  rightly  calculated  for  what  object  and  purpose  Philip 
carried  them  on.     A  man  who  was  ignorant  of  these  matters,  or  had  not 


Demosthenes.  275 


long  and  carefully  studied  them,  let  him  be  ever  so  patriotic  or  wealthy, 
would  neither  see  what  measures  were  needful,  nor  be  competent  to 
advise  you. 

Well,  then,  I  was  the  man  called  for  upon  that  day.  I  came  forward 
and  addressed  you.  What  I  said,  I  beg  you  for  two  reasons  attentively 
to  hear — first,  to  be  convinced,  that  of  all  your  orators  and  statesmen, 
I  alone  deserted  not  the  patriot's  post  in  the  hour  of  danger,  but  was 
found  in  the  very  moment  of  panic  speaking  and  moving  what  your 
necessities  required  ;  secondly,  because  at  the  expense  of  a  little  time 
you  will  gain  large  experience  for  the  future  in  all  your  political 
concerns. 

I  said — 

What  Demosthenes  "  said "  on  that  former  occasion, 
briefly  and  admirably  summarized  now,  we  omit — explaining 
simply  that  he  counseled  amity  and  league  with  Thebes 
against  Philip.  The  effect  and  sequel  of  his  speech  in  this 
behalf  he  thus  strikingly  displays  : 

This  and  more  to  the  like  effect  I  spoke,  and  left  the  platform.  It 
was  approved  by  all  ;  not  a  word  was  said  against  me.  Nor  did  I  make 
the  speech  without  moving,  nor  make  the  motion  without  undertaking 
the  embassy,  nor  undertake  the  embassy  without  prevailing  on  the 
Thebans.  From  the  beginning  to  the  end  I  went  through  it  all ;  I 
gave  myself  entirely  to  your  service,  to  meet  the  dangers  which  en- 
compassed Athens. 

Quintilian  cites  the  next  sentence  to  the  last  foregoing,  as 
an  example  of  climax,  and  Cicero  imitates  it  in  his  oration 
for  Milo.  We  are  now  within  the  suck  of  the  rapids  in 
which  the  oration  of  Demosthenes  hastens  on  to  take  presently 
its  sheer  leap  in  the  most  magnificent  cataract  of  eloquence 
in  the  world.  Demosthenes  gave  his  advice;  but  the  event 
was  not  happy,  though  the  advice  was  wise.  Philip  con- 
quered, for  all  the  statesmanship  and  eloquence  of  Demos- 
thenes, ^schines  had  in  his  speech  insisted  on  the  mis- 
fortune of  the  event ;  Demosthenes  now  insists  on  the  good 
faith  and  soundness  of  the  advice.  With  fine  indignation 
at  ^schines,  mute  in  counsel  but  blatant  in  blame.  Demos- 


276  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

thenes  protests:  "  It  was  the  duty  of  a  good  citizen,  if  he 
had  any  other  plan,  to  disclose  it  at  the  time,  not  to  find  fault 
now."  Then  follows  an  extended  passage  which  we  shall 
not  find  it  in  our  heart  either  to  interrupt  or  to  abridge,  and 
which  shall  finish  what  we  have  here  to  give,  by  way  of  too 
little  adequate  exemplification,  from  Demosthenes  : 

A  statesman  and  a  pettifogger,  while  in  no  other  respect  are  they 
alike,  in  this  most  widely  differ.  The  one  declares  his  opinion  before 
the  proceedings,  and  makes  himself  responsible  to  his  followers,  to  for- 
tune, to  the  times,  to  all  men  ;  the  other  is  silent  when  he  ought  to 
speak  ;  at  any  untoward  event  he  grumbles.  Now,  as  I  said  before, 
the  time  for  a  man  who  regarded  the  commonwealth,  and  for  honest 
counsel,  was  then  ;  however  I  will  go  to  this  extent — if  any  one  now 
can  point  out  a  better  course,  or  indeed  if  any  other  was  practicable 
but  the  one  which  I  adopted,  I  confess  that  I  was  wrong.  For  if  there 
be  any  measure  now  discovered,  which  (executed  then)  would  have 
been  to  our  advantage,  I  say  it  ought  not  to  have  escaped  me.  But  if 
there  is  none,  if  there  was  none,  if  none  can  be  suggested  even  at  this 
day,  what  was  a  statesman  to  do  ?  Was  he  not  to  choose  the  best 
measures  within  his  reach  and  view?  That  did  I,  ^Eschines,  when  the 
crier  asked,  "  Who  wishes  to  speak?" — not  "  Who  wishes  to  complain 
about  the  past,  or  to  guarantee  the  future?"  Whilst  you  on  those  oc- 
casions sat  mute  in  the  Assembly,  I  came  forward  and  spoke.  How- 
ever, as  you  omitted  then,  tell  us  now.  Say,  what  scheme  that  I 
ought  to  have  devised,  what  favorable  opportunity  was  lost  to  the  state 
by  my  neglect  ? — what  alliance  was  there,  what  better  plan,  to  which  I 
should  have  directed  the  people  ? 

But  no  !  The  past  is  with  all  the  world  given  up  ;  no  one  even  pro- 
poses to  deliberate  about  it  ;  the  future  it  is,  or  the  present,  which 
demands  the  action  of  a  counselor.  At  the  time,  as  it  appeared,  there 
were  dangers  impending,  and  dangers  at  hand.  Mark  the  line  of  my 
policy  at  that  crisis  ;  don't  rail  at  the  event.  The  end  of  all  things  is 
what  the  Deity  pleases  ;  his  line  of  policy  it  is  that  shows  the  judgment 
of  the  statesman.  Do  not,  then,  impute  it  as  a  crime  to  me  that  Philip 
chanced  to  conquer  in  battle  :  that  issue  depended  not  on  me,  but  on 
God.  Prove  that  I  adopted  not  all  measures  that,  according  to  human 
calculation,  were  feasible — that  I  did  not  honestly  and  diligently,  and 
with  exertions  beyond  my  strength,  carry  them  out — or  that  my  enter- 
prises were  not  honorable  and  worthy  of  the  state,  and  necessary.  Show 
me  this,  and  accuse  me  as  soon  as  you  like.     But  if  the  hurricane  that 


Demosthe7ies.  277 


visited  us  has  been  too  powerful,  not  for  us  only,  but  for  all  Greece 
besides,  what  is  the  fair  course  ?  As  if  a  merchant,  after  taking  every 
precaution,  and  furnishing  his  vessel  with  every  thing  that  he  thought 
w^ould  insure  her  safety,  because  afterward  he  met  with  a  storm  and  his 
tackle  was  strained  or  broken  to  pieces,  should  be  charged  with  the 
shipwreckl  "Well,  but  I  was  not  the  pilot,"  he  might  say;  just  as  I 
was  not  the  general — "  Fortune  was  not  under  my  control  ;  all  was 
under  hers." 

Consider  and  reflect  upon  this.  If  with  the  Thebans  on  our  side  we 
were  destined  so  to  fare  in  the  contest,  what  was  to  be  expected,  if  we 
had  never  had  them  for  allies,  but  they  had  joined  Philip,  as  he  used 
every  effort  of  persuasion  to  make  them  do  ?  And  if,  when  the  battle 
was  fouglit  three  days'  march  from  Attica,  such  peril  and  alarm  sur- 
rounded the  city,  what  must  we  have  expected,  if  the  same  disaster  had 
happened  in  some  part  of  our  territory  ?  As  it  was,  do  you  see  ?  we 
could  stand,  meet,  breathe ;  mightily  did  one,  two,  three  days  help  to 
our  preservation  ;  in  the  other  case — but  it  is  wrong  to  mention  things 
of  which  we  have  been  spared  the  trial  by  the  favor  of  some  deity,  and 
by  our  protecting  ourselves  with  the  very  alliance  which  you  assail. 

All  this,  at  such  length,  have  I  addressed  to  you,  men  of  the  jur}',  and 
to  the  outer  circle  of  hearers  ;  for  as  to  this  contemptible  fellow,  a  short 
and  plain  argument  would  suffice. 

If  the  future  was  revealed  to  you,  ^schines,  alone,  when  the  state  was 
deliberating  on  these  proceedings,  you  ought  so  have  forewarned  us  at 
the  time.  If  you  did  not  foresee  it,  you  are  responsible  for  the  same 
ignorance  as  the  rest.  Why,  then,  do  you  accuse  me  in  this  behalf, 
rather  than  I  you  ?  A  better  citizen  have  I  been  than  you  in  respect 
of  the  matters  of  which  I  am  speaking ;  (others  I  discuss  not  at  present,) 
inasmuch  as  I  gave  myself  up  to  what  seemed  for  the  general  good,  not 
shrinking  from  any  personal  danger,  nor  taking  thought  of  any  ;  whilst 
you  neither  suggested  belter  measures,  (or  mine  would  not  have  been 
adopted,)  nor  lent  any  aid  in  the  prosecuting  of  mine  ;  exactly  what  the 
basest  person  and  worst  enemy  of  the  state  would  do,  are  you  found  to 
have  done  after  the  event ;  and  at  the  same  time  Aristratus,  in  Nax'os, 
and  Ar-is-to-la'us,  in  Tha'sos,  the  deadly  foes  of  our  state,  are  bringing  to 
trial  the  friends  of  Athens,  and  ^schines  at  Athens  is  accusing  Demos- 
thenes. Surely  the  man,  who  waited  to  found  his  reputation  upon  the 
misfortunes  of  the  Greeks,  deserves  rather  to  perish  than  to  accuse 
another ;  nor  is  it  possible  that  one  who  has  profited  by  the  same  con- 
junctures as  the  enemies  of  the  commonwealth,  can  be  a  well-wisher  of 
his  countr}'.     You   show  yourself  by  your  life  and  conduct,  by  your 


278  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

political  action,  and  even  your  political  inaction.  Is  any  thing  going  on 
that  appears  good  for  the  people  ?  ^schines  is  mute.  Has  any  thing 
untoward  happened  or  amiss?  Forth  comes  ^schines — just  as  fractures 
and  sprains  are  put  in  motion  when  the  body  is  attacked  with  disease. 

But  since  he  insists  so  strongly  on  the  event,  I  will  even  assert  some- 
thing of  a  paradox,  and  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  not  to  marvel  at  its  bold- 
ness, but  kindly  to  consider  what  I  say.  If,  then,  the  results  had  been 
foreknown  to  all,  if  all  had  foreseen  them,  and  you,  ^schines,  had  fore- 
told them  and  protested  with  clamor  and  outcry — you  that  never  opened 
your  mouth — not  even  then  should  the  commonwealth  have  abandoned 
her  design,  if  she  had  any  regard  for  glory,  or  ancestry,  or  futurity.  As 
it  is,  she  appears  to  have  failed  in  her  enterprise,  a  thing  to  which  all 
mankind  are  liable,  if  the  Deity  so  wills  it ;  but  then — claiming  prece- 
dency over  others,  and  afterward  abandoning  her  pretensions — she  would 
have  incurred  the  charge  of  betraying  all  to  Philip.  Why,  had  we 
resigned  without  a  struggle  that  which  our  ancestors  encountered  every 
danger  to  win,  who  would  not  have  spit  upon  you  ?  Let  me  not  say,  the 
commonwealth  or  myself  I  With  what  eyes,  I  pray,  could  we  have  beheld 
strangers  visiting  the  city,  if  the  result  had  been  what  it  is,  and  Philip 
had  been  chosen  leader  and  lord  of  all,  but  other  people  without  us  had 
made  the  struggle  to  prevent  it ;  especially  when  in  former  times  our  coun- 
try had  never  preferred  an  ignominious  security  to  the  battle  for  honor? 

For  what  Grecian  or  what  barbarian  is  ignorant,  that  by  the  Thebans, 
or  by  the  Lacedaemonians  who  were  in  might  before  them,  or  by  the 
Persian  king,  permission  would  thankfully  and  gladly  have  been  given 
to  our  commonwealth  to  take  what  she-  pleased  and  hold  her  own,  pro- 
vided she  would  accept  foreign  law  and  let  another  power  command  in 
Greece  ?  But,  as  it  seems,  to  the  Athenians  of  that  day  such  conduct 
would  not  have  been  national,  or  natural,  or  endurable  ;  none  could  at 
any  period  of  time  persuade  the  commonwealth  to  attach  herself  in 
secure  subjection  to  the  powerful  and  unjust  ;  through  every  age  has  she 
persevered  in  a  perilous  struggle  for  precedency  and  honor  and  glory. 
And  this  you  esteem  so  noble  and  congenial  to  your  principles,  that 
among  your  ancestors  you  honor  most  those  who  acted  in  such  a  spirit ;  and 
with  reason.  For  who  would  not  admire  the  virtue  of  those  men  who 
resolutely  emb.-irked  in  their  galleys  and  quitted  countiy  and  home, 
rather  than  receive  foreign  law,  choosing  Themistocles  who  gave 
such  counsel  for  their  general,  and  stoning  Cyr'si-lus  to  death  who  ad- 
vised submission  to  the  terms  imposed — not  him  only,  but  your  wives 
also  stoning  his  wife  ?  Yes  ;  the  Athenians  of  that  day  looked  not  for 
an  orator  or  a  general,  who  might  help  them  to   a  pleasant  servitude ; 


Defftosthetzes.  279 


they  scorned  to  live  if  it  could  not  be  with  freedom.  For  each  of  them 
considered  that  he  was  not  born  to  his  father  or  mother  only,  but  also 
to  his  country.  What  is  the  difference  ?  He  that  thinks  himself  born 
for  his  parents  only,  waits  for  his  appointed  or  natural  end  :  he  that 
thinks  himself  born  for  his  country  also,  will  sooner  perish  than  behold 
her  in  slavery,  and  will  regard  the  insults  and  indignities,  which  must 
be  borne  in  a  commonwealth  enslaved,  as  more  terrible  than  death. 

Had  I  attempted  to  say,  that  I  instructed  you  in  sentiments  worthy  of 
your  ancestors,  there  is  not  a  man  who  would  not  justly  rebuke  me. 
What  I  declare  is,  that  such  principles  are  your  own  ;  I  show  that  before 
my  time  such  was  the  spirit  of  the  commonwealth;  though  certainly  in 
the  execution  of  the  particular  measures  I  claim  a  share  also  for  myself. 
The  prosecutor,  arraigning  the  whole  proceedings,  and  embittering  you 
against  me  as  the  cause  of  our  alarms  and  dangers,  in  his  eagerness  to 
deprive  me  of  honor  for  the  moment,  robs  you  of  the  eulogies  that  should 
endure  forever.  For  should  you,  under  a  disbelief  in  the  wisdom  of  my 
policy,  convict  the  defendant,  you  will  appear  to  have  done  wrong,  not 
to  have  suffered  what  befell  you  by  the  cruelty  of  fortune.  But  never, 
never  can  you  have  done  wrong,  O  Athenians,  in  undertaking  the 
battle  for  the  freedom  and  safety  of  all !  I  swear  it  by  your  forefathers 
— those  that  met  the  peril  at  Marathon,  those  that  took  the  field  at 
Platsea,  those  in  the  sea-fight  at  Salamis,  and  those  at  Artemisium,  and 
many  other  brave  men  who  repose  in  the  public  monuments,  all  of  whom 
alike,  as  being  worthy  of  the  same  honor,  the  country  buried,  ^schines, 
not  only  the  successful  or  victorious  !  Justly  !  For  the  duty  of  brave 
men  has  been  done  by  all,  their  fortune  has  been  such  as  the  Deity 
assigned  to  each. 

Accursed  scribbler  !  you,  to  deprive  me  of  the  approbation  and  affec- 
tion of  my  countrymen,  speak  of  trophies  and  battles  and  ancient  deeds, 
with  none  of  which  had  this  present  trial  the  least  concern.  But  I  ! — O 
you  third-rate  actor ! — I,  that  rose  to  counsel  the  state  how  to  maintain 
her  pre-eminence  !  in  what  spirit  was  I  to  mount  the  hustings  ?  In  the 
spirit  of  one  having  unworthy  counsel  to  offer  ?  I  should  have  deserved 
to  perish  !  You  yourselves,  men  of  Athens,  may  not  try  private  and 
public  causes  on  the  same  principles  ;  the  compacts  of  every-day  life  you 
are  to  judge  of  by  particular  laws  and  circumstances,  the  measures  of 
statesmen,  by  reference  to  the  dignity  of  your  ancestors.  And  if  you 
think  it  your  duty  to  act  worthily  of  them,  you  should  every  one  of  you 
consider,  when  you  come  into  court  to  decide  public  questions,  that  to- 
gether with  your  staff  and  ticket,  the  spirit  of  the  commonwealth  is 
delivered  to  you. 


28o  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

We  should  apprise  our  readers  that  in  going  from  the 
Olynthiac  oration  to  the  Oration  on  the  Crown,  we  exchanged 
translators,  leaving  Leland  and  taking  up  Kennedy.  Ken- 
nedy is  later  than  Leland.  In  merit,  the  two  are  not  very 
unequal.  Lord  Brougham  made  an  ambitious  and  pains- 
taking experiment  in  the  translation  of  Demosthenes  on  the 
Crown.  To  the  claims  of  this  work  Mr.  Kennedy  does  full 
justice  in  frequent  allusion;  but  the  work  seems  to  us  by  no 
means  equal  to  the  translator's  own  fame  as  an  orator. 

The  speech  is  still,  at  the  point  at  which  we  arrest  our 
hand,  little  more  than  two  thirds  done,  and  in  what  remains 
we  feel  many  temptations  to  multiply  extracts.  But  the 
heart  of  the  speech  we  have  given,  ^schines,  too,  invoked 
those  great  names  of  Marathon  and  Plataea,  but  he  with 
somehow  an  indefinably  different  effect.  In  the  oath  of  De- 
mosthenes there  was  genuine  feeling ;  by  defect  of  such  feel- 
ing in  the  allusion  of  ^schines,  the  words  that  he  uses 
sound  empty  and  vain. 

In  truth,  the  two  orators  deal  with  very  much  the  same 
topics,  in  very  much  the  same  manner,  throughout  their  sev- 
eral orations.  Each  one  lays  claim  to  patriotism  for  himself, 
and  charges  treason  or  corruption  upon  the  other.  They 
both  alike  profess,  each  for  himself,  great  respect  for  the 
laws,  and  great  reverence  for  the  lawgiver,  Solon,  with  the 
rest  of  the  worthies  of  former  generations.  One  scarcely 
wonders  that  so  luminous  and  candid  a  mind  as  the  distin- 
guished French  historian  of  philosophy.  Cousin,  found  in  De- 
mosthenes "nothing  after  all  but  a  great  orator."  "  Dema- 
gogical "  the  Frenchman  openly  calls  the  Greek.  But  Bre- 
dif,  whose  work  on  Demosthenes,  for  fullness  of  matter  and 
brilliancy  of  treatment,  deserves  to  be  regarded  as  the  work  on 
this  subject,  does  not  agree  with  his  countryman.  "  It  would 
be  difficult,"  says  Br^dif,  in  the  course  of  quoting,  more  at 
large  than  we  have  done,  Cousin's  sentence  on  Demosthenes, 
"  it   would  be  difificult  to  compress  more  errors  into  fewer 


Demosthenes.  281 


words."  (Bredif,  by  the  way,  is  accessible  in  an  English 
translation  handsomely  produced  by  Messrs.  S.  C.  Griggs 
&  Co.,  of  Chicago.) 

On  the  whole,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  our  own 
instinct  of  hero-worship  inclines  us  to  side  with  Bredif,  and 
against  Cousin.  Mankind  needs  great  historic  examples. 
Let  us  keep  the  Demosthenes  that  we  have — a  not  perfect, 
but  at  least  an  heroic,  figure,  forever  in  act  of  La-oc'o-on's 
struggle  with  overmastering  destiny — this  not  for  himself, 
but  for  Athens. 

Who  this  figure  was,  how  he  lived,  that  is,  how  he  was 
born,  how  bred,  what  was  his  proportionate  wealth,  what  his 
social  position — even  what  manner  of  death  he  died — these 
are  points  of  comparatively  small  concern.  Such,  at  least, 
these  points  would  seem,  except  that  Demosthenes  himself — 
with  a  qualm,  it  is  true,  real  or  affected,  of  reluctance  over- 
come— lifts  them  into  prominence  in  his  speech  against 
^schines.  It  is  mortifying  to  read  now  the  pages  of  rail- 
ing scurrility  that  Demosthenes  has  left  immortal  against 
^schines — pages  in  the  course  of  which  he  contrasts  his 
own  birth  and  breeding  with  the  less  happy  condition  of  life 
enjoyed  by  his  antagonist.  We  thus  learn  that  Demosthe- 
nes was  rich,  well-educated,  in  short,  quite  of  the  aristocracy 
in  that  democracy  of  Athens.  His  death  was  as  tragic  as 
that  of  Cicero.     He  died,  a  suicide,  by  poison. 

It  was  after  the  crowning  triumph  of  his  life,  his  victory 
over  ^schines,  that  Demosthenes,  with  other  Athenian 
citizens,  was  put  on  trial  for  embezzlement  of  certain  funds 
deposited  in  Athens  by  a  fugitive  satrap  of  Alexander  the 
Great.  The  supreme  court,  the  Areopagus,  judged  Demos- 
thenes to  be  guilty.  They  fined  him  fifty  talents.  Demosthe- 
nes would  not,  or  could  not,  pay  the  fine,  and  he  went  into 
exile.  Alexander  meantime  died,  and  wretched  Greece 
made  one  desperate  struggle  more,  a  vain  one,  against 
Macedon,  reigned  over  now  by  An-tip'a-ter  in  Alexander's 


282  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

vacant  room.  Demosthenes — he  had  previously  been  re- 
called from  exile —  was  part  of  the  price  for  peace  in  servitude 
demanded  from  Athens  by  the  conqueror.  The  orator  fled; 
he  was  pursued ;  seeking  sanctuary  in  a  temple  of  Poseidon, 
he  there,  still  ruthlessly  hunted,  sucked  poison  from  his  pen, 
and,  dying,  crawled,  with  his  last  strength,  out  to  his  pur- 
suers, that  his  dead  body  might  not  defile  the  fane  of  the 
god.  So  perished  Demosthenes,  and  with  Demosthenes  the 
greatest  and  the  last  of  the  free  voices  of  Athens.  But 
Demosthenes's  voice  has  sounded  more  widely  and  more 
potently  far,  since  it  was  silenced  that  day,  than  ever  it 
sounded  from  the  bema  in  Athens.  And  still  it  has  "the 
wages  of  going  on  and  not  to  die." 

The  American  student  of  eloquence  cannot  do  better  than 
to  make  a  careful  comparison  and  contrast,  founded  on  full 
knowledge,  between  the  two  orations  of  ^schines  and  De- 
mosthenes, on  the  one  hand,  and  the  two  orations  of  Hayne 
and  Webster,  on  the  other.  We  have  signified  our  own 
agreement  that  Demosthenes  was  the  greatest  of  orators. 
But  this  need  not  imply  that  the  Oration  on  the  Crown, 
though  that  be  judged  the  masterpiece  of  its  author,  is  the 
greatest  of  orations.  The  Reply  to  Hayne  is,  in  our  opinion, 
a  greater  speech  than  the  Reply  to  ^schines.  But  our 
American  feeling  may  be  guessed  to  bribe  our  cosmopolitan 
judgment.  We  give  accordingly  an  expression,  less  bold 
indeed  than  our  own,  but  to  similar  import,  from  a  distin- 
guished German  scholar  and  publicist,  naturalized  in  America. 
This  gentleman,  to  an  almost  vernacular  familiarity  with  both 
the  Greek  and  English  tongue,  and  to  almost  a  native's  knowl- 
edge of  Hellenic  and  American  history,  may  be  presumed  to 
have  joined  a  foreigner's  as  well  as  a  scholar's  exemption 
from  national  bias  in  the  case.  Dr.  Francis  Lieber,  in  a 
communication  to  Mr.  Allibone,  engaged  at  the  time  on  his 
great  work,  the  Dictionary  of  Authors,  wrote : 

"To  test   Webster's   oratory,   which   has  ever   been  very 


Demosthenes.  283 


attractive  to  me,  I  read  a  portion  of  uiy  favorite  speeches  of 
Demosthenes,  and  then  read — always  aloud — parts  of  Web- 
ster; then  returned  to  the  Athenian  ;  and  Webster  stood  the 
test.     I  have  done  it  several  times." 

Greatness  in  a  man's  environment  and  in  his  opportuni- 
ties, reacts  powerfully  to  make  the  man  himself  great.  If  the 
scale  of  things  iato  which  Demosthenes  was  born,  and  in 
which  he  acted,  had  been  as  large  as  that  which  was  pro- 
vided for  Webster,  perhaps  Demosthenes  would  have  been 
enlarged  to  a  man  as  great  as  was  Webster.  Perhaps  if 
Christianity,  instead  of  Olympianism,  had  been  the  atmos- 
phere to  Demosthenes,  he  might  have  been  not  less  lofty  than 
Webster  in  moral  conception  and  tone. 

Readers  will  hardly  need  to  be  reminded  that  Plutarch 
has  a  life  of  Demosthenes,  and  in  a  separate  essay  an  elab- 
orate parallel  between  that  orator  and  Cicero.  Let  it  be 
borne  in  mind  that  Demosthenes  was  nearly  enough  a  con- 
temporary of  Plato  to  be  (not  improbably)  reported  as  one  of 
Plato's  pupils,  and  it  will  easily  be  understood  within  how 
comparatively  short  a  space  of  time  for  their  production,  the 
chief  glories  of  ancient  Greek  literature — Homer  always  ex- 
cepted— were  embraced.  Herodotus  was  the  contemporary 
and  friend  of  Sophocles;  Sophocles  was  the  contemporary 
of  Plato ;  Plato  was  possibly  the  teacher  of  Demosthenes, 
and  with  Demosthenes  the  cycle  of  great  original  Greek 
literature  may  be  said  to  have  closed.  After  this  came  a 
literature  of  the  decadence,  imitative,  parasitic — having  its 
seat  now  at  Alexandria,  and  now  at  Syracuse.  The  Greek 
literary  spirit  did  not  die  at  last,  but  it  made  a  transmigra- 
tion. It  was  first  Hellenistic  from  being  Hellenic,  and  then, 
partly  through  the  Roman  genius,  it  went  indistinguishably, 
but  vitally,  into  the  various  literatures  that  have  flourished 
in  Europe  since  the  era  of  Christianity.  It  is  not  easy  to  see 
what  can  prevent  it  from  living  as  long  as  literature  itself 
shall  live. 


284 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


The  next  and  final  volume  of  this  series  will  be  the  Col- 
lege Latin  Course  in  English.  In  that  volume,  those  of 
our  present  readers  who  hold  long  enough  and  follow  far 
enough  the  clew  that  we  put  into  their  hands,  will  seem,  in 
the  procession  of  Latin  authors  there  made  to  pass  before 
their  eyes,  to  recognize  not  a  few  familiar  forms  and  faces 
and  voices.  Under  the  disguise  of  other  names  and  of  an- 
other speech,  they  will  still  be  Greeks — ^those  whom  we  shall 
there  encounter  in  the  lengthening  labyrinth  of  letters.  Along 
these  mazy  paths  by  eminence  it  is,  that,  starting  from  its 
ancient  haunt  in  Athens, 

Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of  power. 


TEMPLE  OF  JEGINA  RESTORED. 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


We  count  with  confidence  on  having  among  our  readers 
many  who  will  be  students  as  well  as  readers.  We  make 
provision  for  these. 

In  the  first  place,  we  furnish  a  carefully  prepared  index  of 
proper  names,  with  pronunciation  marked,  and  with  reference 
given  to  the  pages  on  which  the  most  important  matter  con- 
cerning the  topics  thus  indicated  will  be  found.  The  chiefly 
prominent  names  are  printed  in  type  adapted  to  exhibit  their 
prominence  readily  to  the  eye. 

We  suggest  to  studious  readers  that  they  will  find  it  a  very 
useful  exercise  to  review  their  reading  with  the  help  of  the 
index,  by  looking  up  all  the  passages  relating  to  the  different 
principal  names  successively,  and — after  this  has  been  done, 
not  during  the  process  of  doing  it — to  set  down  in  writing  the 
results  that  are  left  lodged  in  the  memory.  To  facilitate  the 
accomplishing  of  this  purpose  in  a  way  to  make  the  result- 
ant record  convenient  to  each  reader  for  subsequent  preser- 
vation and  access,  we  bind  into  the  volume  a  few  blank 
leaves  at  the  end.  It  will  be  well  if  these  leaves  be  filled  up, 
not  simply  with  things  remembered  from  the  printed  pages 
preceding,  but  with  things  brought  from  other  sources,  and 
especially  with  things  thought  out  by  the  individual  reader 
for  himself.  It  is  recommended  that  care  be  exercised  be- 
forehand to  divide  up  the  blank  space  provided,  in  some  just 
proportion,  among  the  various  names  to  be  entered.  We 
know  from  our  own  private  correspondence  that  some  enter- 
prising readers  of  the  previous  volumes  have  found  no  little 


288  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


satisfaction  in  the  part  they  have  taken  in  thus  themselves 
helping  make  the  books  that  they  use.  Books  into  which 
you  have  in  some  sense  put  yourself,  become  thereby  precious 
to  you  as  the  years  go  by. 

But  besides  the  index  of  names,  we  make  another  pro- 
vision to  aid  students  in  the  business  of  review  and  self-in- 
spection. We  give  a  list  of  questions  to  serve  as  stimulants' 
to  recollection,  to  reflection,  and  to  further  investigation. 

First,  for  the  satisfaction  of  readers  who  like  to  know  names, 
even  if  they  cannot  know  the  things  to  which  the  names  be- 
long, we  condense,  from  Professor  Jebb's  admirable  primer 
of  Greek  Literature,  his  already  condensed  account  of  the 
chief  extant  works,  not  previously  mentioned  in  this  volume, 
of  the  four  Greek  dramatists,  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  Eu- 
ripides, and  Aristophanes.  The  other  writers  here  rep- 
resented, hardly,  for  the  purpose  of  this  book,  require 
further  attention  than  that  which  they  have  received  in 
previous  pages  : 

Aeschylus. — In  the  Seven  against  Thebes  (468  B.  C.)\ve  are  shown  how 
the  inherited  curse  in  the  house  of  CEdipus  is  visited  on  his  sons,  Eteocles 
and  Polyneices,  who  slay  each  other  in  single  combat  when  the  Argives, 
under  Adrastus,  besiege  Thebes.  .  .  .  The  Suppliants  are  the  fifty  daugh- 
ters of  Danaus,  who  have  fled  with  their  father  from  Egypt  to  Argos,  in 
order  to  avoid  marrying  their  first  cousins,  the  fifty  sons  of  Aegyptus.  The 
Argive  king,  Pelasgus,  receives  and  protects  them. 

Sophocles.— The  play  called  the  Trachiniae,  or  Women  of  Trachu, 
because  these  form  the  chorus,  tells  how  Deianeira,  living  at  Trachis  in 
Thessaly,  learns  that  Heracles  has  fallen  in  love  with  lole,  and  sends  him 
a  robe  anointed  with  the  blood  of  the  Centaur  Nessus,  knowing  not  that 
it  is  aught  but  a  harmless  love  charm ;  and  how  Heracles,  in  mortal  tor- 
ment from  the  poison,  bids  his  son  Hyllus  take  him  to  the  top  of  Mount 
Oeta,  and  lay  him  on  a  funeral  pyre  ;  and  thence,  '  wrapped  in  heavenly 
flame,  is  gathered  to  the  host  of  the  gods.'  .  .  .  The  Ajax  opens  on  the 
morning  after  Ajax — in  the  frenzy  with  which  Athene  punished  his  pride — 
has  butchered  the  cattle  of  the  Greeks,  thinking  that  he  was  slaying  the 
Greek  chiefs  who  had  slighted  him  by  giving  the  armor  of  Achilles  to 
Odysseus.  When  reason  returns,  he  is  overwhelmed  with  the  sense  of  dis- 
honor, and  kills  himself.  The  Electra  shows  us  the  vengeance  taken  by 
Orestes  on  his  mother  Clytaemnestra  and  on  Aegisthus — the  theme  treated 
in  the  Choephori  of  Aeschylus  and  the  Electra  of   Euripides ;   but  has  a 


APPENDIX. 


We  count  with  confidence  on  having  among  our  readers 
many  who  will  be  students  as  well  as  readers.  We  make 
provision  for  these. 

In  the  first  place,  we  furnish  a  carefully  prepared  index  of 
proper  names,  with  pronunciation  marked,  and  with  reference 
given  to  the  pages  on  which  the  most  important  matter  con- 
cerning the  topics  thus  indicated  will  be  found.  The  chiefly 
prominent  names  are  printed  in  type  adapted  to  exhibit  their 
prominence  readily  to  the  eye. 

We  suggest  to  studious  readers  that  they  will  find  it  a  very 
useful  exercise  to  review  their  reading  with  the  help  of  the 
index,  by  looking  up  all  the  passages  relating  to  the  different 
principal  names  successively,  and — after  this  has  been  done, 
not  durbig  the  process  of  doing  it — to  set  down  in  writing  the 
results  that  are  left  lodged  in  the  memory.  To  facilitate  the 
accomplishing  of  this  purpose  in  a  way  to  make  the  result- 
ant record  convenient  to  each  reader  for  subsequent  preser- 
vation and  access,  we  bind  into  the  volume  a  few  blank 
leaves  at  the  end.  It  will  be  well  if  these  leaves  be  filled  up, 
not  simply  vvith  things  remembered  from  the  printed  pages 
preceding,  but  with  things  brought  from  other  sources,  and 
especially  with  things  thought  out  by  the  individual  reader 
for  himself.  It  is  recommended  that  care  be  exercised  be- 
forehand to  divide  up  the  blank  space  provided,  in  some  just 
proportion,  among  the  various  names  to  be  entered.  We 
know  from  our  own  private  correspondence  that  some  enter- 
prising readers  of  the  previous  volumes  have  found  no  little 


288  College  Gi'eek  Course  in  English. 

satisfaction  in  the  part  they  have  taken  in  thus  themselves 
helping  make  the  books  that  they  use.  Books  into  which 
you  have  in  some  sense  put  yourself,  become  thereby  precious 
to  you  as  the  years  go  by. 

But  besides  the  index  of  names,  we  make  another  pro- 
vision to  aid  students  in  the  business  of  review  and  self-in- 
spection. We  give  a  list  of  questions  to  serve  as  stimulants 
to  recollection,  to  reflection,  and  to  further  investigation. 

Some  readers  will  be  curious  to  know  the  sources  from 
which  we  derive  the  illustrations  that  enrich  this  volume. 
"  The  World  of  Herodotus  "  is  photographically  reduced  to 
fit  the  present  book,  from  the  somewhat  larger  map  in  the 
Appletons'  reprint  of  Rawlinson's  '*  Herodotus."  The  bust 
of  Herodotus,  the  "  Ruins  of  Sardis,"  and  the  **  Supposed 
Tomb  of  Cyrus  "  come  from  the  same  source.  This  Ameri- 
can edition  is  much  cheaper  than  the  English,  and  it  is  suffi- 
cieiUly  good  for  ordinary  readers.  Scholars  will,  of  course, 
justly  prefer  the  more  expensive  English  form  of  the  work — 
///  its  latest  edition.  The  "  Teiresias  Denouncing  CEdipus  "  is 
reproduced  from  the  Century  Magazine,  which  had  a  season- 
able paper  on  the  Greek  Play  at  Harvard.  The  rest  of  the 
cuts,  with  one  or  two  unimportant  exceptions,  are  taken  from 
an  elaborate  German  work,  entitled  "  Bilder-Atlas  zur  Welt- 
geschichte," — which  we  might  freely  render,  "  Pictorial  His- 
tory of  the  World."  (The  German  work,  by  the  way,  deserves 
to  be  reproduced  here  in  a  form  adapted  to  the  needs  of  the 
American  public.)  The  originals  of  the  German  cuts  were 
ancient  statues,  vases,  urns,  reliefs,  coins,  medals,  etc. 

As  to  the  translations  used  in  representing  the  various 
Greek  authors — choice  among  them  has  been  made  with  the 
utmost  care.  The  resources  of  more  than  one  great  public 
library  have,  in  some  instances,  been  drawn  upon  in  the  quest 
of  a  highly  desirable  version,  perhaps,  of  a  single  fragment  of 


Appendix.  289 


Greek  poetry.  To  illustrate  the  rarity  of  some  of  the  books 
sought,  we  may  mention  that  of  Gary's  translation  of  Pindar, 
curiously  enough,  we  were  not  able  to  find  a  copy  either  on 
the  New  York  importers'  shelves,  or  in  the  great  collection 
of  the  Astor  Library.  The  latter  much-criticised,  but  truly 
beneficent,  however  imperfectly  administered,  institution 
also  failed  on  application  to  produce  a  copy  either  of  Camp- 
bell's, or  of  Whitelaw's  Sophocles.  By  dint  of  much  pains, 
however,  and  through  a  sort  of  good  fortune  as  well,  we  have, 
with  the  help  of  kind  friends,  found,  in  nearly  every  case  of 
need,  some  satisfactory  English  version  of  the  production 
chosen  for  exhibition  to  our  readers.  We  have  sufficiently 
indicated,  in  the  text  itself  of  the  book,  our  own  opinion 
of  the  comparative  merits  of  the  various  chief  rival  versions 
that  present  themselves  to  distract  the  choice  of  the  student 
in  search  of  the  best  English  form  for  the  great  Greek  authors. 
Literary  tastes  and  standards  change  greatly  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  but  it  may,  we  think,  safely  be  said  that, 
for  fifty  years  at  least  to  come,  the  necessary  work  of  English 
translation  from  Greek  has,  for  the  greater  authors,  been  ac- 
complished. If  translations  continue  to  be  multiplied,  it  will 
be  rather  to  gratify  the  ambition  of  those  who  make  them, 
than  to  meet  any  real  need  on  the  part  of  those  who  will  be 
invited  to  read  them.  The  reading  public  now  possess  good 
enough  English  equivalents,  in  large  enough  variety,  for  the 
principal  writers  of  classic  Greek  literature. 

First,  for  the  satisfaction  of  readers  who  like  to  know  names, 
even  if  they  cannot  know  the  things  to  which  the  names  be- 
long, we  condense,  from  Professor  Jebb's  admirable  primer 
of  Greek  Literature,  his  already  condensed  account  of  the 
chief  extant  works,  not  previously  mentioned  in  this  volume, 
of  the  four  Greek  dramatists,  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  Eu- 
ripides, and  Aristophanes.  The  other  writers  here  rep- 
resented, hardly,  for  the  purpose  of  this  book,  require 
13 


290  College  Greek  Course  in  English, 

further   attention   than   that  which   they   have   received   in 
previous  pages  : 

Aeschylus.— In  the  Seven  against  Thebes  (468  B.  C,)we  are  shown  how 
the  inherited  curse  in  the  house  of  CEdipus  is  visited  on  his  sons,  Eteocles 
and  Polyneices,  who  slay  each  other  in  single  combat  when  the  Argives, 
under  Adrastus,  besiege  Thebes.  .  .  .  The  Suppliants  are  the  fifty  daugh- 
ters of  Danaus,  who  have  fled  with  their  father  from  Egypt  to  Argos,  in 
order  to  avoid  marrying,  their  first  cousins,  the  fifty  sons  of  Aegyptus.  The 
Argive  king,  Pelasgus,  receives  and  protects  them. 

Sophocles. — The  play  called  the  Trachiniae,  or  Women  of  Trachi,, 
because  these  form  the  chorus,  tells  how  Deianeira,  living  at  Trachis  in 
Thessaly,  learns  that  Heracles  has  fallen  in  love  with  lole,  and  sends  him 
a  robe  anointed  with  the  blood  of  the  Centaur  Nessus,  knowing  not  that 
it  is  aught  but  a  harmless  love  charm ;  and  how  Heracles,  in  mortal  tor- 
ment from  the  poison,  bids  his  son  Hyllus  take  him  to  the  top  of  Mount 
Oeta,  and  lay  him  on  a  funeral  pyre  ;  and  thence,  *  wrapped  in  heavenly 
flame,  is  gathered  to  the  host  of  the  gods.'  .  .  .  The  Ajax  opens  on  the 
morning  after  Ajax — in  the  frenzy  with  which  Athene  punished  his  pride — 
has  butchered  the  cattle  of  the  Greeks,  thinking  that  he  was  slaying  the 
Greek  chiefs  who  had  slighted  him  by  giving  the  armor  of  Achilles  to 
Odysseus.  When  reason  returns,  he  is  overwhelmed  with  the  sense  of  dis- 
honor, and  kills  himself.  The  Electra  shows  us  the  vengeance  taken  by 
Orestes  on  his  mother  Clytaemnestra  and  on  Aegisthus — the  theme  treated 
in  the  Choephori  of  Aeschylus  and  the  Electra  of  Euripides  ;  but  has  a 
clearer  artistic  unity  than  the  former,  and  more  ideal  beauty  than  the 
latter.  .  ,  .  The  Antigone  is  a  yet  later  chapter  in  the  story  of  the  house. 
[of  Thebes].  The  two  sons  of  Oedipus,  Polyneices,  the  assailant  of  Thebes, 
and  Eteocles,  its  champion,  have  slain  each  other  in  single  combat.  Creon, 
king  of  Thebes,  has  decreed  that  no  one,  on  pain  of  death,  shall  pay  the 
rites  of  burial  to  Polyneices ;  but  Antigone  sets  the  unwritten  law  of  the 
gods  above  the  edict  of  man,  and  renders  the  last  honors  to  her  brother's 
corpse,  and  is  put  to  death  by  Creon,  whose  son,  the  lover  of  Antigone,  and 
that  son's  mother,  slay  themselves,  cursing  him. 

The  scene  of  the  Philoctetes  (409  B.  C.)  is  laid  on  the  desolate  isle  of 
Lemnos.  Ten  years  ago,  the  hero,  Philoctetes,  suffering  from  a  noisome 
wound  in  the  foot,  was  left  there  in  his  sleep  by  the  Greeks,  at  the  instance 
of  Odysseus,  as  they  sailed  against  Troy;  but  now  they  need  him,  since  he 
has  the  bow  of  Heracles,  by  which  alone — so  say  the  gods — Troy  can  be 
taken.  Odysseus  persuades  Neoptolemus,  the  son  of  Achilles,  to  help  him 
in  a  base  scheme  for  seizing  Philoctetes,  or  stealing  his  bow  ;  the  scheme 
has  succeeded  when  the  young  man's  better  nature  revolts  against  it.  If 
Philoctetes  will  not  come  with  them  to  Troy,  Neoptolemus  will  not  steal 
his  bow.  At  this  moment  the  divine  Heracles  himself  appears  ;  Philoc- 
tetes learns  the  health  and  glory  that  await  him  at  Troy  ;  and  gladly  obeys 
his  summoners.  .  .  . 

Euripides. — The  Hippolytus,  which  gained  the  first  prize,  tells  how 
that  son  of  Theseus  was  cursed  by  his  father,  and  perished,  when  his  step- 


Appendix.  291 


mother  Phaedra  had  falsely  accused  him  of  assailing  her  honor  ;  and  how 
Theseus,  when  his  son  is  dying  before  his  eyes,  learns  the  truth,  too  late, 
from  Artemis,  the  goddess  of  chastity.  The  play  alludes  to  the  recent 
death  of  Pericles  (429  B.  C).  Racine  used  this  plot  in  his  Phedre.  The 
Hecuba  (425  B.  C.)  sets  forth  the  vengeance  of  the  widowed  queen  of  Troy 
on  Polymestor,  who  had  slain  her  son  Polydorus  and  carried  off  her  daugh- 
ter Polyxena.  The  Andromache  (424-422  B.  C.  ?)  turns  on  the  fortunes 
of  her  who  was  once  Hector's  wife  and  is  now  the  captive  of  Neoptolemus, 
son  of  Achilles.  It  bears  the  mark  of  the  Peloponnesian  War  in  a  cele- 
brated invective  against  the  Spartan  character. 

The  Ion,  (424-421,)  one  of  the  finest  plays,  of  which  the  scene  is  laid  at 
Delphi,  unfolds  how  Ion,  founder  of  the  Ionian  race  and  of  the  Attic 
tribes,  was,  in  truth,  the  son  of  Apollo  by  Creusa,  daughter  of  Erectheus. 
...  In  the  Suppliants  (420-417  B.  C.  ?)  Athens  appears  as  the  champion 
of  humanity  against  Creon,  king  of  Thebes,  who  has  refused  burial  to  the 
Argive  warriors  slain  before  its  walls.  So,  too,  in  the  Heracleidae  (of  like 
date)  Athens  becomes  a  city  of  refuge  to  the  children  of  Heracles,  perse- 
cuted by  Euiystheus,  once  their  dead  father's  taskmaster.  The  Mad  Her- 
acles (420-417  B.  C.  ?)  tells  how  Heracles,  driven  mad  by  his  enemy,  the 
goddess  Hera,  (Juno,)  murders  his  wife,  Megara,  and  his  children,  and  on 
recovering  his  senses  is  going  to  kill  himself ;  when  King  Theseus  soothes 
his  despair,  and  persuades  him  to  seek  grace  and  peace  at  Athens. 

Of  the  Iphigenia  among  the  Tauri,  the  scene  is  laid  at  Balaclava  in  the 
Crimea.  Iphigenia,  rescued  by  the  miraculous  intervention  of  Artemis 
from  the  death  to  which  her  father  had  doomed  her,  has  become  a  priestess 
in  the  temple  of  that  goddess,  where  human  victims  are  sacrificed.  She  is 
called  upon  to  immolate  two  strangers,  when  she  discovers  them  to  be  her 
brother  Orestes  and  his  friend  Pylades.  She  plans  their  escape  ;  and 
finally,  by  command  of  the  goddess  Athene,  Thoas,  the  king  of  the  land, 
allows  all  three  to  go  back  to  Cireece,  where  they  found  the  worship  of 
Artemis  at  Halae  and  Brauron  in  Attica.  The  Troades  (415  B.  C.)  is  con- 
cerned with  the  sorrows  of  noble  Trojan  dames,  Hecuba,  Andromache, 
Cassandra,  just  after  the  fall  of  Troy.  The  Helen  (412  B.  C.)  turns  on  the 
story,  made  popular  by  the  lyric  poet  Stesichorus  in  his  '  recantation,' 
that  only  a  wraith  of  Helen  went  to  Troy ;  the  real  Helen  went  to  Egypt, 
and  was  rescued  from  its  king,  Theoclymenus,  by  a  trick  of  her  disguised 
lord,  Menelaus. 

The  Phoenissae  (411  B.  C.)  deals  with  the  war  levied  against  Thebes  by 
the  Argives  in  support  of  the  claim  of  Polyneices  to  the  throne  against  that 
of  his  brother  Eteocles.  The  chorus  consists  of  '  Phoenician  maidens,' 
brought  from  Tyre  to  serve  in  the  temple  of  Apollo  at  Delphi,  and  detained 
at  Thebes  by  the  outbreak  of  the  war.   .  .  . 

The  Electra,  (410  B.  C.,)  on  the  same  theme  as  the  Choephori  of  ^schy- 
lus  and  the  Electra  of  Sophocles,  well  illustrates  the  poet's  manner.  His 
Electra  is  a  reduced  gentlewoman,  living  in  the  cottage  of  a  worthy  man 
with  whom  she  has  gone  through  the  forms  of  marriage.  In  the  Orestes 
(408  B.  C.)  Apollo  rescues  Helen  from  the  sword  of  Orestes,  who  has  gone 
mad  after  murdering  his  mother. 

The  Iphigenia  at  Aulis  and  the  Bacchae  were  brought  out  after  the  poet's 
death  by  his  son,  the  younger  Euripides.  The  former  shows  how  Iphige- 
nia, doomed  by  her  father,  Agamemnon,  to  be  sacrificed  at  Aulis  in  order 


292  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

that  the  wind  might  become  fair  for  the  Greek  fleet,  was  rescued  by  the 
goddess  Artemis,  who  carried  the  maiden  off  to  her  temple  among  the 
Tauri  in  the  Crimea.  In  the  Bacchae  ('female  Bacchants')  Pentheus, 
king  of  Thebes,  arrests  the  disguised  god  Dionysus,  who  has  brought  his 
wild  bacchanal  revelry  among  the  Thebans.  But  the  god  takes  a  terrible 
vengeance.  The  king  is  rent  in  pieces  by  his  own  mother  Agdve  and  her 
companions,  in  the  frenzy  of  their  bacchant  orgies.  ... 

The  Cyclops  is  the  only  specimen  of  a  satyr-drama  that  we  have.  It 
turns  on  the  adventure  of  Odysseus  with  Polyphemus,  and  has  a  good  deal 
of  rollicking  buffoonery,  but  little  wit,  and  is  not  too  short  at  700  lines. 
The  Rhesus,  which  used  to  be  attributed  to  Euripides,  is  now  generally 
supposed  to  be  by  some  indififerent  poet  of  the  latest  Attic  time. 

Aristophanes. —  .  .  .  The  yi<:>^ar«/a«j,  (425  B.  C.,)  a  plea  for  the  peace- 
party  against  the  war-party,  the  latter  being  represented  by  the  men  of 
Achamae,  whose  vineyards  have  been  laid  waste  by  the  Peloponnesians.  .  .  . 
In  the  Wasps,  {/^12.  B.  C.,)  on  which  Racine  founded  Les  Plaideurs^  we  are 
shown  how  the  demagogues  treat  their  deluded  allies,  the  citizens  who  form 
the  large  juries  in  the  law-courts.  The  Peace  (421  B.  C.)  resumes  the  pur- 
pose of  the  '  Acharnians.'  Trygaeus,  a  distressed  Athenian,  flies  up  to 
heaven  on  a  beetle,  and  there  finds  the  gods  engaged  in  pounding  the 
Greek  states  in  a  mortar.  He  succeeds  in  liberating  the  goddess  Peace 
from  her  prison,  and  winning  her  blessings  for  Greece.  .  .  .  The  Lysistrata 
appeared  just  before,  the  Thesmophoriazusae  just  after,  the  reign  of  terror 
established  by  the  Four  Hundred  in  411  B.  C.  In  the  former,  the  women 
seize  the  government,  with  a  view  to  ending  the  Peloponnesian  War.  In 
the  latter,  Euripides  is  tried  and  condemned  at  the  female  festival  of  the 
Thesmophoria.  .  .  . 

The  Ecclesiazusae  (392)  shows  how  the  '  Women  in  Parliament '  con- 
trived to  frame  a  new  constitution.  The  Plutus  (388  B.  C.)  relates  how 
eye-sight  was  restored  to  the  god  of  wealth,  who  proceeds  to  enrich  the 
good  and  beggar  the  wicked. 

It  will  be  remarked  that  Professor  Jebb,  whose  orthography 
we  strictly  follow,  does  not  fall  in  with  the  extreme  tendency 
obtaining  among  English  scholars  to  spell  Greek  words  by 
close  transliteration.  We  have  ourselves  occasionally  been 
inconsistent  in  not  observing  a  uniform  rule.  The  present  is 
a  time  of  transition  from  one  English  orthography  of  Greek 
words  to  another. 


Appendix.  293 


Questions. 

I.  What  difference  distinguishes  ancient  times  from  modern 
as  regards  the  extent  to  which  communication  of  thought  was 
then  carried  on  by  means  of  address  to  the  ear  instead  of  the 
eye? 


2.  To  what  cause  or  causes  may  the  difference  be  attrib- 
uted? 


3.  Do  you  think  that  literature  could  be  produced  and  pre- 
served without  written  language  to  serve  as  a  means  ? 


4.  If  it  could,  in  what  form,  that  of  prose  or  that  of  verse, 
would  literature  be  likely  to  take  its  rise  ? 


5.  What  effect  on  the  style  of  authors  would  naturally  re- 
sult from  their  being  obliged  to  depend  simply  on  the  ears 
of  their  patrons  for  intelligent  appreciation  ? 


6.  What  peculiar  educating  effect  on  the  minds  of  people 
would  naturally  result  from  their  being  obliged  to  receive 
communications  of  thought  solely  through  the  medium  of  the 
ear? 


7.  What  would  be  the  twofold  influence  thus  exerted  in  the 
development  of  oratory  ? 


294  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

8.  Which  habit,  that  of  addressing  the  ear,  or  that  of  ad- 
dressing the  eye,  would  naturally  react  more  upon  an  author 
to  make  him  a  good  story-teller  ? 


9.  Which  of  the  two  habits  would  tend  more  to  make  the 
exact  and  trustworthy  historian  ? 


10.  Do  you  think  a  literature  of  criticism  could  be  pro- 
duced and  preserved  in  the  absence  of  written  language  ? 


II.  Do  you  recognize  a  difference  between  Homer  and 
Herodotus  in  point  of  simplicity  and  genuineness  ? 


12.  What  are  the  several  distinguishing  characteristics  of 
Herodotus  and  Thucydides  ? 


13.  Which  way  does  the  balance  of  indebtedness  incline 
as  between  Socrates  and  Plato;  that  is,  which  one  owes  more 
to  the  other  for  the  fame  that  he  enjoys  ? 


14.  What  has  been  the  extent,  and  what  the  quality,  of  the 
influence  exerted  respectively  by  Plato  and  Aristotle  ? 


15.  What  effect  on  the  perfecting  of  a  literature  would 
naturally  result  from  the  massing  together  of  writers  within 
the  bounds  of  a  single  city  like  Athens  ? 


Appendix  295 


16.  Would  criticism  actively  in  process  at  the  same  time 
with  creation  tend  more  to  stimulate  or  to  depress  productive 
ambition,  and  zeal  for  literary  perfection,  in  authors  ? 


17.  What  influence  is  exerted  by  political  freedom  en- 
joyed by  a  people  to  affect  that  people's  achievement  in  lit- 
erature ? 


18.  To  what  degree  is  the  difference  in  quality  between, 
for  instance,  the  Athenian  literature,  represented  by  -^schy- 
lus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides,  on  the  one  hand,  and  Syra- 
cusan  literature,  represented  by  Theocritus,  Bion,  and  Mos- 
chus,  on  the  other,  traceable  to  different  political  conditions 
environing  the  authors  respectively  ? 


19.  In  what  respects  principally  was  ancient  Greek  tragedy 
different  from  the  tragedy  of  modern  times  ? 


20.  What  were  the  salient  characteristics  respectively  of 
the  three  great  Greek  tragedists  ? 


21.  What  were  the  chief  distinctive  traits  of  Greek  come- 
dy as  represented  by  Aristophanes  ? 


22.  What  peculiar  circumstances  existed  to  foster  the  de- 
velopment of  Greek  lyric  poetry  ? 


296  College  Greek  Course  in  English. 

23.  What  were  the  characteristics  of  Pindar's  lyric  style 
and  method  ? 


24.    What  were  the  chief  distinguishing  traits  of  the  poetry 
of  Theocritus  ? 


25.  What  distinct  form  or  variety  of  poetical  composition 
can  you  think  of  that  is  not  exemplified  in  the  literature  of 
Greece  ? 


26.  What  were  the  characteristic  traits  of  the  oratory  of 
Demosthenes  ?     Of  ^schines  ? 


27.  What  is  your  own  judgment,  formed  independently 
from  the  specimens  submitted  of  the  orators  themselves,  con- 
cerning the  comparative  personal  deserts  of -^Eschines  and 
Demosthenes  ? 


28.  Is  it  a  benefit,  or  is  it  an  injury,  to  a  community  to  be 
subject  to  the  influence  of  eloquent  popular  orators? 


Appendix,  297 


It  will,  perhaps,  gratify  some  curious  readers  if,  in  a  select 
capital  instance,  we  afford  still  further  facilities  for  compari- 
son of  one  translation  of  Greek  poetry  with  another.  Prof. 
Jebb's  elaborate  edition  of  Sophocles,  now  issuing  in  sumptu- 
ous form  from  the  Cambridge  University  Press,  gives  us  satis- 
factory means  of  doing  this.  From  the  first  volume,  the 
only  volume  that  has  thus  far  appeared  of  that  work,  we 
take  the  following  passage  occurring  in  the  parallel  prose 
translation  that  accompanies  the  Greek  text  of  the  CEdipus 
Tyrannus.  This  is  a  translation  the  principle  of  which.  Prof. 
Jebb  says,  is  "  absolute  fidelity  to  the  original ;  not  to  the 
letter  of  the  original  at  the  cost  of  the  spirit,  but  to  the 
spirit  as  expressed  in  the  letter : " 

May  destiny  still  find  me  winning  the  praise  of  reverent  purity  in  all 
words  and  deeds  sanctioned  by  those  laws  of  range  sublime,  called  into 
life  throughout  the  high,  clear  heaven,  whose  father  is  Olympus  alone  ; 
their  parent  was  no  race  of  mortal  men,  no,  nor  shall  oblivion  ever  lay 
them  to  sleep  ;  a  mighty  god  is  in  them,  and  he  grows  not  old. 

Insolence  breeds  the  tyrant  ;  Insolence,  once  vainly  surfeited  on  wealth 
that  is  not  meet  nor  good,  when  it  hath  scaled  the  crowning  height,  leaps 
on  the  abyss  of  doom,  where  no  service  of  the  feet  can  serve.  But  I  pray 
that  the  god  never  quell  such  rivalry  as  benefits  the  State ;  the  god  will  I 
ever  hold  for  our  protector. 

But  if  any  man  walks  haughtily  in  deed  or  word,  with  no  fear  of  justice, 
no  reverence  for  the  images  of  gods,  may  an  evil  doom  seize  him  for  his 
ill-starred  pride,  if  he  will  not  win  his  vantage  fairly,  nor  keep  him  from 
unholy  deeds,  but  must  lay  profaning  hands  on  sanctities.  Where  such 
things  are,  what  mortal  shall  boast  any  more  that  he  can  ward  the  arrows 
of  the  gods  from  his  life  ?  Nay,  if  such  deeds  are  in  honor,  wherefore 
should  we  join  in  the  sacred  dance  ? 

No  more  will  I  go  reverently  to  earth's  central  and  inviolate  shrine,  no 
more  to  Abae's  temple  or  Olympia,  if  these  oracles  fit  not  the  issue,  so  that 
all  men  shall  point  at  them  with  the  finger.  Nay,  king — if  thou  art  right- 
ly called — Zeus  all  ruling,  may  it  not  escape  thee  and  thine  ever-deathless 
power ! 

The  old  prophecies  concerning  Laius  are  fading ;  already  men  are  set- 
ting them  at  naught,  and  nowhere  is  Apollo  glorified  with  honors  ;    the 
worship  of  the  gods  is  perishing. 
13* 


INDEX. 


Readers  will  simply  need  to  be  reminded  that  ch  in  Greek  words  is  always  sounded 
like  k^  that  es  final  has  the  sound  of  eez^  that  g  in  English  pronunciation  of  Greek  names, 
elsewhere  hard,  is,  before  e,  i,  or  y,  always  soft,  and  that  x  initial  is  sounded  like  z. 


A-by/dos,  46. 

A-chil'les,  107. 

Ach'e-ron.  A  river  of  the  lower  world.  247, 
251,  252. 

A'cis.    A  river  of  Sicily.  244. 

Ad-ei-man'tus,  48,  91,  95. 

Ad-me'tus,  6i,  189-211. 

A-do'nis,  Beloved  by  Venus,  and  by  her, 
after  his  death  from  a  wound  received  in 
hunting  a  wild  boar,  changed  into  a 
flower.  She  mourned  him  yearly  on  the 
anniversary  of  his  death.  240,  241,  247, 
248,  251,  252, 

.ffi'a-cus.  III,  112,  271. 

iEg'i-lus.  An  Attic  deme,  (township.)   246. 

a?  _;/_        S  I.  Island  near  Athens,  70,  102. 

^-gi  na,    j  2.  Mother  of  iEacus,  113. 

^S'CHI-NES,  (B.  C.  389-314.)    253,  254, 


525-456.)    127-154, 


256,  264-275. 
^8'CHY-LtS,  (B.  C. 


215. 

iEs-cu-la'pi-us,  124. 

iEt'na,  142,  143,  232. 

Ag-a-mem'non,  134,  135,  252. 

Ag'a-thon,  103,  187. 

Ag-bat'a-na,  32. 

A'gis,  266. 

Ag-la'i-a.  (Brightness,splendor.)  One  of  the 
three  Graces.    230. 

A'jax,  252. 

Al-cae'us,  (fl.  B.  C.  611  ?)    81,  236. 

Al-ces'tis,  188-213. 

Al-ci-bi'a-des,  (B.  C.  450-404.)  76,  77,  103, 
104,  126. 

Al-ci'des.    Patronymic  for  Hercules.    242. 

Alc-me'na.     Mother  of  Hercules.     208. 

Al-ex-an'der,  (B.  C.  356-323.)  265,  266, 
267,  270,  281. 

A-lex-an-dri'a.  The  strict  scholastic  or- 
thoepy of  the  ancient  name.  125,  242, 247. 

AJIi-bone,  Samuel  Austin,  (1816-)  282. 

A-mor'gus,  238. 

Am-phip'o-lis,  259. 

A-na'pus.    A  river  of  Sicily.    244. 

An-chi'ses.  Mortal  lover  of  Venus  and,  by 
her,  father  to  ^neas.     245. 

An'dros,  51. 

An-te'nor.    (Trojan.)    107. 

An-tip'a-ter,  281. 

An'to-ny,  (B.  C.  83-30.)    263. 

Aph-ro-di'te,  186,  235,  242,  245,  246,  251. 


A'pis.  The  sacred  ox  of  the  Egyptians.   43. 

A-pol-lo-do'rus,  124. 

A-pol^lo,  26,  27,  135,  156,  189,  190,  225,  229. 

Ar-e-op'a-gus,  281. 

Ar-is-ti'des,  (d.  468  ?  B.  C.)    59. 

AR-I8-TOPH'A-IVES,  (B.  C.444?-38o?) 

103,  155.  188,  212,  216-225. 
AB'18-TOT-LE.  (B.  C.  384-322.)   83,84, 

127-130,  234. 
Ar'nold,  Thomas,  (1795-1842.)    174. 
Ar^nold,  Matthew,  (1822-)   95, 173, 174,  243, 

247,  251. 
Ar-tax-erx'es,  (d.  362  B.  C.)    62. 
Ar'gos,  23,  60,  61. 
Ar-ta-ba'nus,  47. 
Ar-is-to-la'us,  277. 
A-ris'tra-tus,  277. 
Ar-sin'o-e,  248,  251. 
Ar-e-thu'sa.  Fountain  near  Syracuse.   241, 

242. 
A-rym'bas,  259. 
As-cle'pi-an.  Adj.  from  Asclepios,  (iEscula- 

pius.)  206. 
A-so'pi-chus.    An  Orchomenian.    230. 
Astra-chan,  41. 

A-the'ne.     Pallas,  (Minerva.)    135. 
Ath'ens,  63,  66-70,  7';,  76,  213,  216,  259,  284. 
A'treus.     Son  of  Pelops,  chiefly  famous  as 

father  to  Agamemnon  and  Menelaus.   242. 
At'ti-ca,  65,  76. 
At'las,  142. 
A'tys,  25,  44. 
Au'gus-tine,  St.     Latin  Christian  Father, 

(A.  D.  354-430.)     86. 

Bab'y-lon,  21,  22,  35. 

Bac'chus,  217. 

Ba'con,  Francis,  (1561-1626,)    86, 

Ba-laus'tion,  188,  212,  224. 

Banks,  Rev.  J.,  241. 

Bel-ler'o-phon,  230. 

Ber-e-ni'ce,  251. 

Bergk,  Theodor,  236. 

Be-ro'sus,  35. 

Bi'on,  239-243. 

Bi'to,  23,  24. 

Boe-o'ti-a,  226. 

Bos'pho-rus,  146. 

Bowles.  William  Lisle,  (1762-1850.)    238. 

Bras'i-das,  107. 

Br^'dif,  L.,  (French.)    280,  281. 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


299 


Bro'mi-us.    (The  Noisy  One.)     A  surname 

of  Bacchus,  from  the  tumult  attending  his 

festivals.    228. 
Brough'am,  (broo'am)  Henry,  Lord,  (1779- 

1868.)    280. 
Browning,  Robert,  (1812-)  188,  212,  224. 
Browning,  Mrs.,  (1809-1861.)    136, 142,  146, 

148,  212,  215,  247. 
Bryant,  William  CuUen,  (1794-1878.)   139. 
Buckley,  T.  A.,  188. 

Burke,  Edmund,  (1729  or  1730-1797.)  75,219. 
By'ron,  (1780-1824.)    234,  235. 

Cad'mus.    Founder  of  Thebes.    156,  228. 

Cal'li-cles,  in. 

Cal-li'o-pe.     Muse  of  Epic  poetry.    242. 

Cal'ver-ley,  C.  S.,  (d.  1884.)    243. 

Cam-by'ses.  (d.  522  B.  C.)     40-43. 

Camp'bell,  Lewis,  155,  156, 174. 

Car-lyle',  Thomas,  (1775-1880?)     83. 

Gary,  Rev.  H.  F.,  (1772-1844.)    228^31. 

Cau'ca-sus,  135. 

Ce'bes,  122. 

Ce-cro'pi-an,  (Athenian,)  adj.  from  Cecrops, 

founder  of  Athens.    213. 
Ce-lae'nae,  44. 
Ce'os,  238. 
Ce-phi'sus.    A  river  of  Phocis  and  Boeotia. 

186,  214. 
Chaer-o-nei'a,  264,  268. 
Chap'man,  J.  M.,  239,  241. 
Chro'nos,  140. 

Cic'e-ro,  (B.  C.  106-43.)    86,  120, 253, 263. 
Ci-lic'i-a,  232. 
Cis-sae'tha,  246. 

Ci-thae'ron.    A  mountain  in  Boeotia.    156. 
Clay,  Henry,  (1777-1852-)    75- 
Cle'o-bis,  23, 24. 
Cle-o-da'mus,  230. 
Cle-om'bro-tus,  120. 
Clyt-em-nes'tra,  135. 

Co-cy'tus.    Ariverof  the  lower  world.    198. 
Cole'ridge,  S.  T.,  (1772-1834.)     228,229. 
Cole'ridge,  H.  N.,  (1800-1843.)    228,  233. 
Col'lins,  W.  Lucas,  (living,)  221. 
Co-lo'nus.     A  deme  or  township  of  Attica, 

lying  on  and  around  a  hill,  famous  for  a 

temple  of  Neptune.     155,  i86. 
Cor-cy'ra,  72,  75,  79. 
Co-rin'na,  226. 
Cor'inth,  72,  156,  177,  179. 
Cor-y-ban'tes.    Priests  of  Cybele  or  Ops, 

120. 

Cousin,   (koo-zan,  n  nasal,)  Victor,  (1792- 

1867.)   264,  280,  281. 
Cow'ley,  Abraham,  (1618- 1667.)    227. 
Cre'on,  157-167,  219. 
Crete,  188. 
Cri'to,  117-120. 

Croe'sus,  (fl.  360  B.  C.)     22-43,  233. 
Cro'nos,  no,  in. 

Cros'by,  Rev.  Howard,  D.D.,  (1826-)  224. 
Ctes-i-phon,  (tess')  265. 
Cu'ma,  232. 
Cy'pris.     Aphrodite,   (Venus.)    240,    251, 

252. 


Cy'prus,  215. 

Cy-ro-pae-di'a,  34. 

Cyr'si-lus,  278. 

Cy'rus,  (d.  529  B.  C.)     26-39. 

Cyth-e-re'a.    Aphrodite,  (Venus.)    240. 

Dan'i-el,  36. 

Dan'te,  Alighieri,  (1265-1321.)    226,  228. 

Daph'nis,  243-246. 

Da-ri'us,  (485  B.  C.)     134,  237. 

De'los,  117. 

Del'phi,  26,  156. 

DE-MOS'THE-NES,  (B.  C.  385  ?-322.)  79, 

253-283. 
Deu-ca'li-on,  252. 
Di-og'e-nes  La-er'ti-us.  (fl.  about  210  A.  D.) 

102. 
Di'o-med,  245. 
Di-o'ne,  251. 
Di'on,  loi,  102. 

Di-o-nys'i-us,  (B.  C,  430?-367.)    100,  loi. 
Di-o-ny'sus.     Bacchus,  god  of  wine.     73, 

186. 

E-chec'ra-tes,  124. 

E'eypt,  21,  22. 

E-Tec'tra,  135,  212. 

E-leu'sis,  23, 186. 

En'e-ti,  36. 

Eph'e-sus,  61. 

Er-i-bo'as.      (Loud-shouting,    riotous,     of 

Bacchus.)    228. 
E'ros.     God  of  love.     242. 
E'ryx,  251. 
Eu-boe'aj  48. 
Eu-men'i-des,  135. 
Eu'no-e,  248. 
Eu-phra'tes,  35. 
Eu-phros'y-ne.   (Cheerfulness,  mirth.)  One 

of  the  three  Graces.    230. 
EU-RIP'I-DKS,  (B.  C.  480-406.)   155, 187- 

215,  219, '255. 
Eu-ry-bi'a-des,  48. 
Eu-ryd'i-ce.    Wife  of  Orpheus,  who  visited 

the  lower  world  to  bring  her  back,  after 

her  death.  242. 
Eu-rym'e-don,  73. 
Eu'ty-chis,  248. 

Feti-Ali-Shah,  41. 

Fran'cis,  St.,  (1182-1226.)    174. 

Frere,  J.  H,,  (1769-1846.)    219. 

Get'tys-burg,  68. 

Glau'con,  87,  89,  99. 

Goe'the,  (1749-1832.)    100,  212. 

Gol'gi,  251. 

Gorgias,  (B.  C.  457?-38o?)    no,  X13. 

Gor'go,  248. 

Gor'gon.  Fabulous  female  monster,  whose 
look  turned  the  beholder  to  stone;  be- 
headed by  Perseus.     210. 

Gray,  Thomas,  (1716-1771.)    226,  233. 

Grote,  (1794-1871.)    84,  259. 

Gy'ges,  87,  88. 

Gy-Up'pus,  79,  81. 


300 


Index, 


Ha-bron'i-chus,  59. 

Ha'des.     Lower  world.    119, 204. 

Hal-i-car-nas'sus,  20. 

Har-mo'ni-a.  Daughter  of  Mars  and  Ve- 
nus, and  wife  of  Cadmus.    213. 

Hayne,  R,  Y.,  (1791-1840.)     253,  273. 

He'brus,  225. 

Hec'tor,  252. 

Hec'u-ba,  252. 

Hel'en,  251. 

Hel'i-ce,  245. 

He'li-os.     1  he  sun-god.     167. 

Hel'las,  56,  62,  66,  74,  78,  100. 

Hel'les-pont,  45. 

He-phaes'tus.    (Vulcan.)    135-138. 

Her'a-cles.  (Hercules.)  189,  190,  198,  199, 
200, 204,  205,  208,  223. 

Her'cu-les,  129,  188. 

He're.   (Juno.)     72,  146. 

Her'mes,     (Mercury.)    149-151, 204. 

Her'mus,  27. 

HE-R0D'0-TU8,  (B.  C.  484?-42o?)  16- 
52,  56,  57,  87. 

Hi'e-ro,  134,  231. 

Hig'gin-son,  T.  W.,  (1823-)  23A,  235. 

Ho'mer,  (fl.  about  1,000  B.  C.)  16,  92,  226, 

Hor-ten'si-us,  253. 

Ic'a-ru&  A  son  of  Daed'alus,  who  on  his 
flight  from  Crete  fell  into  the  iEge'an 
Sea.    227. 

I'da, 245. 

I-da'li-um,  251. 

I'o,  146. 

I-o'ni-a,  49,  61. 

I-sa'iah,  36. 

I-soc'ra-tes,  (B.  C.  436-338.)    264. 

fer-e-mi'ah,  36. 

low'ett,  B.,  (1817-)  56,  72,  84,  92,  96. 
jo-cas'ta,  156-17Q  frequently, 
fohn'son,  Samuel,  (1709-1784.)     108. 
fones.  Sir  William,  (1746-1794.)    81. 
fove.     Zeus,  (Jupiter.)    232. 
fu'no.    (Her6.)    23. 
[u'pi-ter.    (Zeus.)     31. 

Ken'drick,  A.  C,  (1809-)  92. 

Ken'ne-dy,  B.  H.,  (1804.)   263,  280. 

Ko're.  Literally,  maiden  or  daughter — name 

used  in  Attica  for  Proserpina,  daughter 

of  Ceres.    206. 

La'i-us,  156-171. 

La-oc'o-on,  281. 

Lap'i-thae.  Thessalians  famous  for  their 
combat  with  the  Centaurs,  a  race  of  creat- 
ures, half  horse,  half  human.    252. 

La-to'na.  Mother  of  Apollo  and  Diana. 
232. 

Leb'a-non,  240, 

Le'land,  Thomas,  (1722-1785.)    263,  280. 

Les'bos,  234. 

Lib'y-a,  21. 

Lie'ber,  Francis,  (1800-1872.)    282. 


Lin'coln,  Abraham,  (180^1865.)    68. 

Lon-gi'nus,  (213-273.)    235, 

Lou'is  XIV.,  (1638-1715.)    22,  45,  219. 

Low'ell,J.  R.,  (1819-)  152. 

Loy-o'la,  Ig-na'ti-us,  (1491-1556.)    255. 

Lu'cian,  (120  ?-200  ?)     154. 

Ly-ca'on,  245. 

Ly-ce'um,  245. 

Lyd'i-a,  21. 

Lys'i-as,  (B.  C.  458-378.)    109. 

Lys'i-cles,  59. 

Ma-cau'lay,  T.  B.,  (1800-1859.)    '9. 

Mac-e-do'ni-a,  188. 

Maen'a-lus,  245. 

Mae-o'tis,  146. 

Mag-ne'si-a,  259. 

Mahaffy,  J.  P.,  (living,)  212. 

Mar'a-thon,  21,  62,  63,  133. 

Mar'sy-as,  105. 

Me-de'a.  A  celebrated  sorceress.    213. 

Me'di-a,  27,  32, 

Me'les.    Ionian  river,  near  Smyrna,  where 

Homer,  thence  called  Melesigenes,  is  said 

to  have  been  born.    242. 
Me-ne-la'us,  242. 
Me'no,  116. 
Mer'o-pe,  170. 
Me-th(/ne,  259. 
Mi'chael  An'gelo,  Buonarroti    (1474-1563.) 

134. 
Mi-le'tus,  251. 

Mil-ti'a-des,  (fl  B.  C.  500  ?)    237. 
MiKton,  (1608-1674.)    33,  98,   131,  143,  152, 

158,  185,  189,  208,  212,  226,  239,  240. 
Mi'nos,  III,  112,  273. 
Min'ya,  230. 
Min'yans.   A  race  of  nobles  in  Orchomenus. 

229. 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  (1480-1535.)    86. 
Mos'chus,   (3d   century   B.   C.)     239,   241- 

243. 
Mure,  Col.  William,  (1799-1860.)    128. 
Myc'a-le,  21. 

Nax'os,  61. 

Ne'me-a,    Town  and  river.    229. 
Nem'e-sis,  159. 
Nes'tor,  107. 
Nic'i-as,  76^  79,  80,  82. 
North,  Christopher,  (John  Wilson,)  (1785- 
1854-)    153. 

0-ce'a-nus,  141. 

O'cy-us,  48. 

O-dys'seus,  49. 

CEDa-PUS,  155-186. 

O-lym'pi-a,  20. 

O-lym'pus,  135. 

O-lyn'tnus,  259. 

Or-chom'e-nus.    A  city  in  Boe-o'tia.    229. 

O-res'tes,  135. 

Or/i-gen.     Greek  Christian  Father,  (185  ?- 

254?)    98. 
Or'pheus,  206,  242. 
O'thrys,  200. 


College  Greek  Course  in  English. 


301 


Pac-to'lus,  26. 

Pac'ty-as,  32. 

Pag''a-sse,  259. 

Pan.  God  of  shepherds  and  woods.  225, 
237,  242. 

Pau-sa'ni-as,  60,  62,  63. 

Par-men'i-des,  114. 

Par-nas'sus.  Mountain  in  Phocis,  sacred  to 
Apollo  and  the  Muses.     165. 

Pa-tro'clus,  252. 

Pea'bod-y,  A.  P.,  (1811-)  72. 

Peg'a-sus.  Winged  horse  of  the  Muses. 
230. 

Pe'li-as.  King  of  Thessaly,  father  to  Al- 
cestis.     197. 

Pe'li-on,  201. 

PeKo-pon-nese,  60. 

Pe-ne'us,  244. 

PER/1-CLES,  (B.  C.  495  ?-429.)  63-68, 71, 
107. 

Phae'drus,  108. 

Phal'a-ris.  "  A  tyrant  of  Agrigentum  (about 
560  B.  C.)  for  whom  Perillus  made  a 
brazen  bull,  in  which  those  condemned  by 
him  were  to  be  roasted  alive.  He  caused 
Perillus  to  be  the  first  to  suffer  by  it,  but 
afterward  experienced  the  same  punish- 
ment himself  at  the  hands  of  his  exasper- 
ated subjects."     233. 

Phe'rse,  189,  259. 

Phe'res,  201-203. 

PHIL'IP,  (B.  C.  382-336.)   259,  261. 

Phos'bus.    (Apollo.)    162,  206,  231. 

Phryg'i-a,  44. 

Pi-e^ri-a,  213. 

PIM'DAR,  (B.  C.  S22?-44o?)  226-233,  253, 

Pin'dus,  244. 

Pi-rae'us,  59,  60. 

Pi'sa.  A  city  in  Elis,  near  which  the  Olym- 
pic games  were  held.     230. 

Pla-tae^a  21 

PLA'TO,  (B.  C.  429  ?-348  ?)  83-126,  234. 

Plump'tre,  E.  H.,  (1821-)  155,  188. 

Plu-tarch,  (49?-i20?)    76. 

Plu-to.  God  of  the  underworld,  no,  in, 
197,  242. 

Po'lus,  113. 

Po-lyb/i-us,  264. 

PoPy-bus,  156, 170,  T77,  ei  al. 

Pos-eiMon.    (Neptune.)    no, 

Pot-i-dae'a,  106,  259. 

Pot'ter,  R,,  (1721-1804.)  188,  197,  206,  209, 
213. 

Prax-in'o-e,  248,  et  al, 

Prex-as'pes,  40. 

Pri-a'pus,  244. 

Prod'i-cus,  223. 

Pro-me'theus,  in,  134-154. 

Proser'pine.  Anglicisedf  form  for  Latin 
Pro-ser''pi-na,  which  is  a  Latinized  form 
for  Greek  Perseph'o-ne.  Differently  pro- 
nounced by  different  poets.  Milton,  Pro- 
ser'pine;  others,  Pros'er-pine.  Queen  of 
the  lower  world.    230,  242. 

Psy'che,  (sy')  34. 


PtoKe-my,  (tolO  Philadelphus,     242,  248. 

Pyd'na,  61,  259. 

Pyrr'hus,  252. 

Pyth'i-us,  44-46. 

Py'tho.    Ancient  name  of  Delphi.   158,  165. 

Raph'a-el,  98. 

Raw'lin-son,  Sir  Heni-y,  (1810.)    21. 
Raw'lin-son,  George,  (1815.)    21. 
Rhada-man'thus,  in,  112,  273. 
Rhe'a.     A  name  for  Cyb'e-le,  the  goddess 
of  plenty ;  Ops,  Terra,  Mater  Magna.  225. 
Rhi'um,  245. 
Rhodes,  188,  254. 
Rous-seau,  J.  J.,  (1712-1778.)     121. 

SAP'PHO,  (saf-o)  (fl  600?  B.  C.)  233-236. 

SaPa-mis,  21,  133,  187. 

Sar'dis,  22,  26,  et  al. 

Schle'gel,  August,  (1767-1845.)    213. 

SchiKler,  (1759-1805.)    229. 

Scyth'i-a,  21. 

Shakes'peare,  (1^64-1616.)    130. 

SheKley,  P.  B,,  (1792-1822.)     135,  139,  153, 

222,  239. 
Sic'i-ly,  75-77,  101,  143,  188,  232,  242. 
Si-cin'nus,  49. 
Si-le'nus,  104. 
Sim'mi-as,  122. 
SI-MON^I-DES,  237,  238. 
Smyr'na,  239. 
SOC'RA-TE8,  (B.  C.  470-399.)     83-126, 

213,  219-224- 
So'lon,  22-25. 
SOPH'O-CLES,  (B.  C.  495?-4o6?)    154- 

187. 
So'phron,  251. 
Spar-gap'i-thes,  39. 
Spar'ta,  63,  64,  72,  188. 
Spen'cer,  Herbert.  (1820-)     85. 
Sted'man,  E.  C,  (1833-)    246,  247. 
Sthen'e-lus.    Father  of  Eurystheus,  king  of 

Mycenae,  who  imposed  upon  Hercules  his 

famous  twelve  labors,    211. 
Sy'monds,  J.  A.,  (living,)  128,  212,  236. 
Syr'a-cuse,  75,  76,  79,  100,  loi,  134, 188, 239, 

2<J2. 

Swin'burne,  A.  C,  (1837-)  209. 

Tar'ta-rus.    The  infernal  regions,    in,  112, 

140,  242. 
Taylor,  Thomas,  (1758-1835.)     125. 
TEI-RE'8I-AS,  158-168. 
Ten'ny-son,  (1809-)  34,  125,  195,  227,  237, 
^247- 
TeKlus,  23. 
Tha-li'a.    (The  blooming  one.)     One  of  the 

three  Graces.   Alsolater,  Muse  of  Comedy 

and  of  Lyric  poetry.  230. 
Tham'muz,    Adonis.    240,  241. 
Thebes,  \      .       ,     ,, 
The'be,  \  ^561  226,  266.^ 
The'mis.    Goddess  of  justice  and  prophecy. 

137-  . 
The-mis'to-cles,  44,  47-51,  58-62. 
THE-0C'RI-TD8,  (fi.  270?)  174,  239-252. 


3oi 


Index. 


Ther-mop'y-lae,  21,  238, 
Thes'sa-ly,  119,  189,  259. 
The'tis.    A  sea-nymph,  mother  of  Achilles. 

242. 
Thrace,  206,  259. 
THU-CYD/I-DES,  (B.  C.47i?-4oo?)   16, 

18,  52-82. 
Thu'ri-i,2o. 
Thym'bris,  245. 
Thyr'sis,  244. 
Tis-sa-pher^nes,  116. 
Ti'ti-an,  (tish-an)  (1477-1576.)    154. 
Ti'tans,  140. 
Tom'y-ris,  37,  39. 
Trog'i-lus,  79. 
Ty'ler,  W.  S.,  (1810.)  153. 
Tyn'da-rus,  242. 
Ty^phon.    A  giant,  struck  by  Jupiter  with 

lightning  and  buried  under  Mt.  iCtna. 

142,  143, 232, 


Vir'gil,  (B,  C.  70-19.)    226,  243. 


U-lys'ses,  242. 

Ve'nus,  241. 

Vir'gil,  (B.  (     . 

VuKcan,    (Hephaes'tus.)    135. 

Web'ster,  Daniel,  (1782-1852.)    71,  75,  253, 

273* 
Weick'er,  234. 

White'law,  Robert,  174,  175,  182, 186. 
Wil'kin-son.  Sir  J.  G.,  (1798-1875.)    21. 
Words'wortn,  (1770-1850.)   125,  237. 

Xen'o-phon,  (B._C.^45  ?-3S5  ?)  15. 
Xerx'es      -      -  ~ 

Ze'no. 

Zeus.    (Jupiter.)    no,  in,  126,  135-153  fre« 

quently,  235. 
Zo-pyr'i-o,  248. 


Xerx'es,  (d.  465  B.  C.)     43-5°!  i33i  ^34 


THE    END. 


.    POEMS 

BY 

WILLIAM    CLEAVER   WILKINSON 

NEW  YORK 

CHAHLES  SCHIBISrEIl'S  SONS. 


GOOD  THINGS  SAID  OF  THE  POEMS. 

In  substance  and  richness  of  thought,  sweep  of  imagination,  and  elegant 
versification,  this  collection  will  take  rank  among  the  very  choicest  of 
American  poetry.— Baptist  Quarterly  Review. 

Not  one  is  commonplace.  .  .  .  Will  be  keenly  enjoyed  by  judges  and 
lovers  of  poetry.— Interior  (Chicago). 

One  of  the  poems  here,  "  Enticed,"  which  appeared  originally  in  **  Put- 
nam's Magazine,"  has  lingered  in  our  memory  with  persistent  sweetness. 
We  find  it  worthy  of  our  first  opinion. — Christian  Register  (Boston). 

Passages  .  .  .  that  might  have  come  from  the  pen  of  one  of  the  great 
masters  of  verse. — ^Providence  Evening  Press. 

An  original  vein,  a  true  lyrical  flow,  and  a  rich  musical  rhythm. — ^Brit- 
ish Quarterly  Review.  ^ 

Measured  and  masculine. — New  York  Daily  Times. 

Not  careless  effusions  thrown  off  in  some  moment  of  real  or  imaginary 
rapture.  Even  the  slightest  of  them  is  carefully  finished.  —  Standard 
(Chicago). 

Pleasing  and  graceful  in  form  and  rhythm. — Providence  Journal. 

They  will  grow  in  the  esteem  of  the  reader  as  he  repeats  his  perusal  of 
them.— Journal  and  Messenger  (Cincinnati). 

1 


POEMS   BY    WILLIAM    CLEAVER    WILKINSON. 


.    Show  a  delicate  taste  and  technical  skill. — Good  Literature  (New  York). 

Weighted  with  thought  and  sentiment,  and  though  the  form  is  graceful — 
sometimes  striking — it  is  the  substance  which  catches  and  holds  the 
reader's  attention. — Evangelist  (New  York). 

Not  without  some  merit  as  may  be  judged  from  the  following:  ["  Mine 
was  the  Blame  "  quoted  entire.] — ^Athenaeum  (London). 

By  no  means  devoid  of  merit  or  originality. — Saturday  Beview  (Lon- 
don). 

Poems  like  the  "  Vale  of  Otter,"  and  "  The  Song  of  Runaway  Pond,"  have 
a  genuine  interest  for  readers  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. — Academy 
(London). 

A  beautifully  bound  collection  of  gems.  Though  some  shine  with 
greater  brilliancy  than  others,  yet  all  are  of  a  high  order. — Christian  Intel- 
ligencer (New  York). 

Most  of  these  poems  are  of  the  kind  that  grow  on  one  ;  at  a  second 
reading  they  seem  finer  than  at  the  first,  and  at  the  third  finer  still — which 
is  the  best  test  we  know  of  real  poetic  power.  .  .  .  The  "  roughness  "  of 
which  some  critics  have  complained  [in  the  ode  on  Webster]  will  never  be 
perceived  by  one  whose  ear  has  been  trained  to  enjoy  the  rich  harmony  of 
Milton's  verse. — Examiner  (New  York). 

Written  by  a  poet,  not  a  mere  rhymer.  "  Foreshadowings  "  floats  in  a 
wistful,  wavering  atmosphere  of  half-understood  desire.  . .  .  The  "  Hymns  " 
are  worthy  of  their  name.— Tribune  (Chicago). 

The  level  is  high,  and  there  is  singular  beauty  and  richness  in  some 
stanzas.  .  .  .  The  translations  from  Homer  are  excellent.  —  Christian 
Union. 


There  are  54  different  pieces  in  the  collection.  Of  these  no  less  than  40 
have  been  singled  out  by  different  periodical  critics  and  named  for  particu- 
lar commendation,  as  follows:  The  Song  of  Runaway  Pond  ("has  music 
in  it  and  at  times  a  majestic  sweep  of  motion  irresistible."  —  American 
Eural  Home.);  The  Preparation;  Transfigured;  A  Sabbath  at  Sea;  An- 
niversary Hymn  ;  The  Old  Year  and  the  New  ;  The  Island  of  Tranquility; 
The  Wife's  Vigil ;  Consolation ;  John's  Poem  ;  The  Open  Guild  of  Let- 
ters ;  The  Wolves'   Feast  ("  A  heart-stirring  story  told  with  melodious 

grace."  —  Evangelist. "Picturesque  enough  to   startle    a   child."  — 

Christian  Union.);  Enticed;  Foreshadowings;  Pilgrimage  ("Indeed 
poetry."  —  The  (New  York)  Nation.) ;  Christ  in  Me ;  Whose  was  the 
Blame  ? ;  Mine  was  the  Blame  ;    The  Northern  Lights  ;  My  Open  Polar 

2 


POEMS   BY    WILLIAM    CLEAVER    WILKINSON. 

Sea  ;  "Where  the  Brook  and  River  Meet"  ;  Experiments  in  Literal  Transla- 
tion of  Homer  ;  Hark  !  ;  To  a  Walnut  Tree  in  October  ("So  full  of  wealth 
of  color  that  the  temptation  to  copy  is  not  to  be  resisted."  —  Chicago 
Times.) ;  The  Vale  of  Otter ;  Desiderium  (The  verses  "  have  a  freshness 
not  common  now  in  poems  of  this  class." — The  (New  York)  Nation.); 
Suggestion  of  a  Stanza  to  be  added  to  Bryant's  "June;"  Whosoever; 
A  Picture  of  Memory;  Neshobee  ;  Life  of  His  Life;  Courage;  Good 
Cheer  ;  Tides ;  At  the  Supper  ;  Dedication  Hymn  ;  National  Hymn  ; 
How  "We  Came  Together  [The  poem  last  mentioned  commemorates  the 
first  meeting  of  the  author  with  Dr.  J.  H.  Vincent,  in  Switzerland, 
where  a  life-long  friendship  was  formed  between  the  two]  ;  Webster : 
an  Ode. 

This  last  poem,  of  which  a  select  portion  was  read  at  the  late  cen- 
tennial anniversary,  commemorative  of  Webster,  at  Marshfield,  is  also 
published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  in  a  separate  volume  accompanied 
with  copious  illustrative  notes.  As  thus  published,  it  received  notice  in 
terms  indicated  by  expressions  like  the  following :  "  Dense  with  thought 
and  tense  with  impassioned  and  imaginative  fervor  .  .  .  No  imperfect 
rhymes  or  laboring  measures  .  .  .  Consummate  art  and  unmistakable 
genius  ...  A  true  order  of  poetry,  unusual  indeed,  if  not  original,  but 
perfect  in  the  essential  attributes  of  poetry  .  .  .  Majestic  pathos  .  .  .  Glo- 
rious poetry,"  etc. — Baptist  Quarterly  Eeview,  (in  a  body  article.) 

"We  agree  with  him"  [the  critic]. — Independent,  (reviewing  the  Quar- 
terly.)  "Stately  poem."  —  Cincinnati  Commercial. "A  magnificent 

poem."  —  Boston  Herald. "Written   in  a  large   and  noble  style."  — 

Boston  Advertiser. "A  unique  and  magnificent  tribute."  —  The  Ad- 
vance (Chicago). 

I*rice,         -......^1  SO. 

N.  B. — To  purchasers  of  any  of  the  After-School  Series  of 
volumes,  we  will,  by  special  arrangement,  send  (post-paid)  a 
copy  of  this  truly  elegant  book  of  verse  for  $i  oo.      Address 

PHILLIPS  &  HUNT, 

805  Broadway, 

New  York 
3 


AFTER-SCHOOL  SERIES. 


We  do  not  repeat  here  any  thing  printed  in  the  larger  exhibit  of  opinions 
that  accompanied  the  Preparatory  Latin  Course  in  English.  We 
condense  greatly,  giving  perhaps  a  few  words  only  out  of  a  long  letter 
from  some  distinguished  scholar,  or  out  of  a  newspaper  review  that  occu- 
pied a  column  or  more  ;  but  we  in  no  case  misrepresent  the  tenor  of  the 
full  text  quoted  from. 

Professor  W.  S.  T7LEB,  LL.D.,  Head  of  the  Department  of  Greek, 
Amherst  College,  says  : 

Professor  Wilkinson  has  executed,  with  sound  judgment,  much  learning, 
and  good  taste,  the  difficult  task  of  giving  Preparatory  Greek  and  Latin 
Courses  in  English  to  those  who  are  unable  to  obtain  a  college  education, 
and  has  thus  rendered  a  valuable  service  not  only  to  them,  but  also  to  edu- 
cated men,  by  providing  for  them  a  more  appreciative  audience.  The 
author  has  shown  his  good  sense  and  his  own  just  appreciation  of  classical 
studies  by  not  professing  to  make  classical  scholars,  but  only  to  impart 
such  a  knowledge  of  Greek  and  Latin  literature  as  can  be  obtained  with- 
out knowing  the  Greek  and  Latin  languages. 

Of  the  Preparatory  Greek  Course  in  English, 
Professor  HENRY  S.  FKIEZE,  LL.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin 
in  the  University  of  Michigan,  says  : 

I  have  been  delighted  with  the  perusal  of  your  critical  notices,  your  own 
translations,  and  your  selections  of  the  translations  of  others,  and  I  sincere- 
ly congratulate  you  on  the  admirable  style  in  which  you  have  presented 
the  matter  itself,  as  well  as  on  the  character  of  the  matter  itself,  and  the 
plan  of  the  whole  work. 

Professor  C.  D.  HOUBIS,  of  Johns  Hopkins  "University,  says : 

Could  be  read  with  interest  and  profit,  not  only  by  persons  who  have  no 
other  knowledge  of  the  subject-matter,  but  also  by  those  who  may  wish  to 
revive  in  an  easy  way  knowledge  which  was  once  familiar,  but  has  been 
allowed  to  drop  more  or  less  out  of  remembrance. 

CHAELES  H.  SPURGEON,  in  the  "  Sword  and  the  Trowel,"  says: 

Bright  and  vivacious. 


AFTER-SCHOOL   SERIES. 


Professor  MOSES  COIT  TYLER,  LL.D.,  of  Cornell  University,  says  : 

I  have  just  been  looking  over  your  book,  with  real  delight  in  the  ingen- 
ious and  simple  plan  of  it,  and  in  its  felicitous  execution.  The  whole 
thing  seems  to  me  to  be  capital. 

The  "  Atlantic  Monthly  "  says : 

Writes  with  liveliness  and  with  a  manifest  determination  that  the  reader 
shall  find  the  Greek  writers  as  human  and  as  interesting  as  English  or 
American  ones. 


Of  the  Preparatory  Latin  Course  in  English, 

Professor  J.  B.  BOISE,  LL.D.,  says  : 

I  shall  lose  no  opportunity  to  recommend  it. 

Professor  WILLIAM  F.  ALLEN,  of  the  Wisconsin  State  XTniversity,  says : 

I  will  only  reiterate  in  general  what  I  said  then  [when  commending  the 
*'  Preparatory  Greek"]  in  relation  to  the  new  book.  I  think  it  will  prove 
very  useful. 

Professor  HENBT  S.  FBIEZE,  LL.D.,  says  : 

It  cannot  fail  to  do  good  in  opening  a  new  world  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression to  those  who  have  no  access  to  it  through  the  Latin  originals, 
and  in  thus  enlarging  the  circle  of  readers  and  scholars  interested  in  clas- 
sical literature.  I  trust  nothing  will  interrupt  your  plan  of  adding  more 
advanced  works  of  a  similar  kind  to  the  series.  They  will  together  form 
a  valuable  contribution  to  the  history  of  classical  literature. 

Professor  F.  S.  CAPEN,  of  Colby  University,  says  : 

Having  studied  Greek  under  Professor  Wilkinson,  I  have,  by  a  most  de- 
lightful experience,  a  personal  knowledge  of  his  thorough  classical  culture 
and  his  ability  to  interest  the  learner.  I  should  have  felt  perfectly  safe  in 
recommending,  without  reserve,  his  After-School  Series,  without  seeing  it. 
Having  seen  the  numbers  already  published,  I  find  them  all  that  could  be 
desired. 

S.  A.  ELLIS,  A.M.,  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction,  (Bochester, 
N.  Y.,)  says  : 

Those  who  read  the  first  will  eagerly  welcome  this  volume,  as  I  have 
done,  and  will  find  it  as  interesting  as  a  good  novel,  and  far  more  useful. 
.  .  .  The  excellent  map  of  the  Roman  Empire  that  accompanies  the  vol- 
ume will  prove  a  great  assistance  to  the  average  reader. 

The  "  Examiner  "  (New  York)  says  : 

The  long  chapter  on  "  The  City  and  the  People  "  we  think  unsurpassed 
in  English  historical  literature,  as  regards  philosophical  insight,  grandeur, 
and  sustained  eloquence.  ...  It  would  be  a  great  gain  if  teachers  of 
Latin  and  Greek  would  put  these  books  in  the  hands  of  their  pupils. 

Greatly  superior  to  any  other  book  on  the  subject  for  the  general  reader. 

6 


AFTER-SCHOOL   SERIES, 


The  "  Christian  Union  "  (New  York)  says  : 

A  book  which  can  be  commended  without  qualification  to  all  those  who 
desire  to  familiarize  themselves  with  the  Roman  people  in  their  intellectual 
achievements.  It  is  a  work  of  great  interest  as  well  as  of  great  power  of 
instruction. 

WILLIAM  C.  CONANT,  in  «  Vidi  "  Correspondence,  says  : 
It  sustains  the  extraordinary  promise  of  its  predecessor. 

The  "  Standard  "  (Chicago)  says  : 

The  author  of  these  books  is  a  trained  scholar  and  writer.  He  knows 
what  is  essential,  and  what  not,  in  study  of  the  sort  here  undertaken. 


Of  the  two  preceding  volumes  of  the  present  series,  nearly 

50,000  copies  have  already  been  sold.      The  volumes  are  ] 

sold  separately.     Price,  $1  25.  \ 

PHILLIPS  &  HUNT,  \ 

805  Broadway,  i 

New  York  : 


934248 


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